Elementary
by AdventsExodus
Summary: "Riddles always bring out the best of us, or in your case the worst temper tantrum I've ever seen a grown child throw." Rated T for language;
1. Pilot - Prolegomenon

Chapter 1

What burns brightest in its dying moments yet can never be dull? What is as fickle as the wind, but always finds consistency in personas? Is as far as the east is from the west, yet as close as a whisper?

Stumped yet? I admit, as adept I am at riddles, this one adequately puzzled me for a good while long – quite a feat for those who know me to be able to solve any enigma in less than 24 hours with a money back guarantee. How about simpler one eh?

What can be swallowed, but can also swallow you?

Figured it out yet? I'll give you some time – and no cheating by searching it up on Google or what-not, that would just kill all the fun and potential for your creativity to grow.

…

…

…

Got it? Well if not, let me guide your thinking. It can't be food, simply because you consume it yet it cannot necessarily consume you in the manner the question speaks of. How about the ocean then? To be honest, it's what I went to first, but it too falls short - not very easy to swallow a mouth full of salt water without spitting it out moments later. What about a more abstract approach? Like the realms of morals, thoughts, emotions….

Alright, you should've gotten it by now. The solution is pride. Get it? Truth be told, I was a bit frustrated at the transparency of the riddle and argued over multiple answers. That was, at least, until I met a man who could singly bring down a worldwide organization, deduce your childhood from your left pinkie, and solve a string of murder cases so complex the police were stumped all before Sunday service. Well, he could if not for me berating him for his over-dramatic antics.

I'll admit, looking back, I wonder just how we managed to survive with each other – him being so different than I, than _anyone_ for that matter. But I suppose that's what drew me to him and him to me initially. We were both riddles so simple, yet so complex that we couldn't help but stay in proximity if only to discover the slightest clue to the solution. Albeit the breaks in between where we were so overwhelmed with irritation at the other's enigma that it was paramount that we departed lest we tear each other apart or inwardly explode.

Want to know who _he_ is? Well, let me follow in suit with my previous ways by introducing a riddle. If you solve it, then I'll grant you your request. If not, then you'll forever be cursed to mull about it as it annoyingly pesters your mind until you're either forced to look up the answer (don't cheat!) or find some other way to distract yourself – which is no easy feat my friend.

He's the most brilliant man you'll ever meet, yet knows virtually nothing that the world dubs as common knowledge. Even so, he can discover the world from the slightest smudge of your fingerprints on a glass cup. He is most often associated with a silly deerstalker cap, but to his closest friends a blue scarf and scruffy coat are all that is needed to identify him. He puts forth an image of an extremely callous, indifferent man, but is undoubtedly the most devoted, wise human being you'll ever meet – if you can get by that horrible social ingrace of his.

Have it? Well, I'll be considerate to those who don't and save you from a life of nagging questions, or at least one enormous one that is. Can't guarantee the rest of your life, but then where would the fun be without a few riddles and the prospect of adventure? Only in an extremely dull life would that be the case I'm afraid.

Anyways, I'm getting off topic. So without further ado, the answer to my final riddle – or at least final one in this entry – is…

* * *

><p>So I decided to be crazy and add to the enormous amount of Sherlock FanFics. Well it's been driving me up the wall lately to write, but I figured it would be more of a experience-gaining situation seeing as other people (coughcough 42believer) can pull off these fics way better than me. But why not? Maybe I can at least amuse some of you.<p>

As opposed to many others, I actually prefer John and Sherlock as more friends than in a relationship, although that won't keep me from poking fun at it in the story as you'll eventually see. Speaking of eventually, I'll go on to expand on the fact that the OC in my story - which I realize I have yet to introduce in the next chapter - will **eventually** be in a relationship with that addicting detective. I mean, it always bothered me to see him immediately fall for someone when it's clearly not in his character to do so - or at least that's in my opinion. So yeah, take eventually as a synonym for practically forever, leaning towards the end of the story if at all.

If you like the story - which I'd be extremely surprised given the crappy intro, title, summary and overused Sherlock/OC pairing - give a review or thumbs up. Perhaps I can surprise you in the future? c;


	2. Pilot - The Old New World

Chapter 2

Cars and cabs honked noisily, adding to the symphony of city life. The bustling crowds, the smoggy air, the countless sights and sounds that could both exhilarate and numb oneself altogether… It sure was different than the quaint little town of Nocatee, but even though the intimacy of close relations marred by the simplicity of a rumor to infect the whole area within hours was on the other side of the Atlantic, London held a beauty of its own that neither small town nor any other location in the United States could. It had accents, _British_ accents. I think I could deal with a little smoggy air.

Seriously, I adored the city even without the amazing timbre of its residents that could literally send a good third of American girls head over heels – myself not excluded unfortunately. But London's true glamor in my eyes was its hospitality to visitors such as myself. Locals may argue, but believe me, it's enormously better than what you find in most US locations. Additionally the food actually came in portioned sizes as opposed to my native country's massive counterpart. In all, the place would be an ideal fit for me, though the distance from my friends back at home would be a challenge to overcome. I mean, I could always call them right?

_Ding!_

Speaking of friends…

_Hey girl! How was the flight? Have you met any London boys yet?_

It was Rebecca, an old roommate of mine bent on tagging along with me, yet ultimately unable to do so without a passport. Still, I somehow found myself mildly disappointed yet grateful that she didn't come with. I suppose it would've simply taken away from the whole new start.

_Long but nice. And no, I just arrived here silly._

I quickly texted the message and put my phone in my pocket prior to a security official passing by and ordering all passengers to exchange their mobiles for their passports. Grabbing my backpack's dangling strap, I lugged it onto my shoulder and proceeded two more inches in the rat-maze of customs. A half-hour later, I arrived at the counter where a kindly old man greeted me.

"First time in London young miss?" he inquired politely with bright blue eyes filled with joy in doing a job I'd only describe as terribly boring after the first week.

"Nope, I've visited a few times. Although it is nice to be back," I smiled, handing him my passport and forms.

He nodded, accepting my words while opening my passport to affirm I was who I claimed to be. It was then that I braced for what was to come. His expression hardened momentarily. He saw something suspicious. Oh no, please no. I prayed silently for rescue and in response his face suddenly cleared of all serious notions. Whew, that was clo-

"My! You're Wendy Verarity aren't you?" he exclaimed and a few heads turned to our direction.

Great, just what I was trying to avoid. "Yep, that's me," I let a small smile form on my face.

"Wow, and here I thought it was just another Tuesday. Well not anymore. It's not as if you get to meet the daughter of the famous Zai Verarity, head of _the_ United Nations and winner of Nobel Peace Prizes across the board. I loved your speech in the World Youth Conference last year. Really inspirational might I say," the man continued excitedly as the murmurs and points towards me increased steadily.

"Thank you, it really was nothing though," I blushed, not liking the attention, although I should've been used to it after being in consistent lime-light for ten years now.

"Please, you needn't be so modest; you deserve it with all you've accomplished. Besides, denying it only prevents you from achieving your full potential," the elder winked, handing me my passport, "Have a wonderful stay and congratulations on your acceptance to University! Culture and Languages was it?"

"Yes," I smiled, tucking away my passport in my hoodie's pouch, "Have a nice day."

Speed walking away, I gave a breath of relief upon reaching the baggage claim, where a crowd thankfully concealed me from any faces that I could have encountered in customs. Thank you London with your massive crowds. A quick snatch of my luggage later and I set off to the subway – or what residents call here the Underground. It would take some time for me to adapt enough to adopt the subtle differences in language between the US and UK, that's for sure.

Once aboard the train, I quickly located a comfortable looking seat and hugged my pillow close to me. Jet lag had slapped me hard in the face and I had trouble suppressing the urge to take a power nap. The only thing that kept me conscious ironically was a recent article in a forgotten paper beside me celebrating my father's recent accomplishments in getting Haiti the aid it so desperately needed after the earthquake while briefly commending my acceptance into the University College of London.

"Wendy Verarity (24) transfers to University College of London in prospects to follow her ambitions in Culture and Language. Ms. Verarity, a leading figure in the United States' Youth Senate Program and multiple international peace groups, states that her motive for crossing over boarders is to fully engulf herself in the experience. 'I find no better alternative than to study the splendid culture and language of Europe than in one of its most prestigious universities,' Verarity explains…" I read to myself, scoffing at my comments and wanting to burn the excerpt from the article. Really, it was unnecessary and totally off topic.

Luckily, by the time I placed the article back down on the seat beside me and returned a few texts to my friends back in America the train had reached its destination. I promptly exited the car and headed outside to wait for one of my father's acquaintances to arrive. I was to stay at said person's house until he arrived the next week to help me into my dorm and begin the process of 'my-only-daughter-is-going-to-college' fess once more. But don't worry. It wasn't as if I didn't know who I was staying with. I heard of him loads of times from father, who spoke very fondly of him, so the only issue lay in noticing the guy among the crowds.

It was then while I waited for the acquaintance to pick me up that I noticed her. A lady dressed from head to toe in the most outlandish pink you'd ever set your eyes on. Honestly I did a double take, not believing my eyes. I always considered London to be a fashionable place, but this lady seemed to go way beyond what I imagined. She even had a matching suitcase of the same hue. And I thought we Americans were obsessive…

Anyways, she waved her hands in a vain attempt to get a cab but none seemed willing enough to oblige. In a gesture of sympathy, I tried hailing one beside her and a few minutes later one strolled up.

"Here, take this one," I offered her.

"Oh thank you dear," She smiled and genuinely looked as if she might cry from the act, "You're an angel."

"No problem," I replied, stealing a momentary glance inside at the cabbie.

At that moment, an odd sensation rushed through me. My heart felt as if it were being rubbed the wrong way, making me instantly uneasy. But why should I be? He appeared as normal as any other driver and even gave a small, kind smile. Surely it was all pre-flight jitters right? Anyway, there was little I could do to stop the woman from climbing in. I mean, it's not as if I could just say, "Hey you shouldn't get into that cab because it gives off a super sketchy feeling." She'd blow me off for sure - heck, _I'd_ blow me off.

Besides, a voice from behind me stopped any insane plan my head created from being executed, "Ms. Verarity?"

I turned to face a man dressed in attire similar to that of what I've seen figures such as Bill Clinton, Winston Churchill and Charlie Chaplin wear – a sleek black suit with a scarlet tie being its only splash of color. His stormy-blue eyes held the same effect as the eye of a hurricane, calm yet imposing an apprehensive weight that warned not to underestimate its bearer, while his casual stance and expression once more turned his persona around, making him an perplexing enigma by mere appearances. And if that wasn't enough to get my mind going, he leaned nonchalantly on an… umbrella? But it wasn't even raining. I began to reconsider some of the oddities I classified distinctly not English.

"Yes, that's me," I replied, "And you are?"

"Mycroft Holmes, one of your father's partners," he explained politely, placing a smile on his face, "A pleasure to finally meet you in person Ms. Verarity."

"Same here," I gave a weak smile back, noting his own's spurious tone, "My father has talked to me quite a bit about you. He thinks of you very highly actually."

"Is that so?" he responded, his emotions remaining consistent, "Dr. Verarity has spoken of you to me as well, although in a much less…professional manner." He paused, gesturing to his car, a sleek black vehicle, "Care to see where you'll be staying?"

I obliged, and followed him to the vehicle where the driver promptly exited and heaved my entire array of luggage into the trunk. Meanwhile, I did my best to find a comfortable seating position in the back, not knowing how long it would be to travel to Mycroft's lodgings. I didn't suspect it'd be quick, especially factoring in the insane traffic the city contained. This would likely be the only time I used a car for transport simply due to its inefficiency.

Mycroft entered on the opposite side and thus began our silent – and, might I add, awkward – trip. Luckily, enough time passed since my last visit for me to be able to adequately marvel at the city and its sights. Even if it hadn't, I doubted boredom would've enveloped me in the ever changing city, with all of its sights and sounds… A thought hit me then. I was entirely accustomed to a noise level that rarely exceeded that of a seldom passing train and other typical suburban sounds, a mere whisper compared to the bustle of city life. How on earth was I to focus or even sleep for that matter? Hopefully Mycroft's lodgings wouldn't be in the center of the city so that at least I'd have a few days to wade in rather than get swamped by it.

Halfway through the trip, I fidgeted, feeling someone's glance fixed on me with that weird sixth sense thing some people have. Briefly, I shot my eyes towards the rearview, yet the driver remained dutiful with his own glued to the trickling traffic before us. That left only one other person, considering the windows to the car were tinted enough to bar most peering outsiders. I peeked out of the corner of my eye, and sure enough spotted Mycroft doing the same.

Suppressing an uncomfortable shudder, I turned to him fully and spoke in an almost whisper-like level, as if trying to avoid shattering the silence but rather gently cracking it, "Are you alright?"

"Hmm?" he blinked, sticking to an oblivious façade.

"I mean, you don't seem to be very comfortable. Is something the matter?" I repeated. An understanding blip of a smile formed as if I were talking to some scared child instead of the man before me. I quickly let it disappear, not wanting him to think I was belittling him.

"Oh no, I'm quite alright," he assured with a not-so-reassuring smile, "Going on excursions simply isn't my top course of action."

"Well then you should've told me," I huffed, perhaps startling his smile away, "If I'd know you didn't like driving about, then I'd have taken a cab to your address rather than put you through such an action that you clearly find distasteful."

"There is no harm done. It There is no harm done. It't, "Mis merely an act of welcoming," Mycroft responded lightly, recovering expertly from his faint semblance of mild astonishment.

"Still," I crossed my arms and directed my gaze to the door, feeling slightly ashamed for forcing my host into doing something he disliked yet angry at him for not saying so otherwise. Sure, I understood the principle of hospitality, but that didn't mean I had to openly enjoy it while the other party was forced into a revulsive situation.

Mycroft paused and I could feel him scanning my actions, likely dubbing them below my supposed maturity. I expected him to make comment on it, but instead he spoke in a surprisingly calm manner, "If I had done that, what would have become of my own value in accommodating a guest?"

I turned back to him as he continued, "You seem to forget that you are no ordinary person, Ms. Verarity. You're the daughter of the head of the United Nations, one of the most important positions in today's time. If I were to go along with your preferred course of action, then not only would I be counted a brazen host who disregarded a direct request from the queen herself, but the reputation of England as a leading nation would diminish as well."

Well, awkward moment much. It's not as if I could just say I forgot that my father was head-honcho of the UN and that all those turning heads were for some ghost that ran down streets screaming 'We all scream for ice cream.' I mean, I could but I doubt it would have done anything more than digging my hole deeper than it already was. That and my already shaky profile in Mycroft's view – which I'm dead certain he had been updating since my arrival – could only handle a certain level of insanity. And it was only day one. Yeah, this was going to be an interesting week to say the least.

Salvation arrived just in time as we came to a stop outside what I could only presume to be Mycroft's lodgings – a quaint structure that appeared to be able to comfortably suit a family yet not be overly spacey to a single resident. I whipped out of the car, eager to distance myself from the conversation as much as I could manage without totally blowing off my host. However, it was quiet an ambitious plan considering he was the only one with a key to the place and knew his way around…

I nearly held my breath in apprehension of him snapping at me, yet he simply opened the door and welcomed me inside, upon which I marveled at the design. To describe it, the dwelling was a mix of contemporary refine with a twist of medieval warmth – like that of a noble lord or monarch deciding to move to the 21st century yet retaining his heritage through possessions that neither hindered nor took away from their advanced counterparts. And to top it off, the wide space and enormous windows allowed for just the right touch of light to complete the homey atmosphere, leaving me pleasantly content with staying for a time.

"Wow, you sure have a nice place," I murmured, unable to quench my curious eyes from taking in all that surrounded me.

Mycroft gave a smile and began leading me down a hallway, "Your room is this way."

Stopping at the end, he opened the leftward facing door to reveal a finely decorated room, fully equipped with a lush full-sized bed a top a mahogany stand with corresponding drawers and a desk facing towards the window that overlooked a patch of greenery in the city. The walls themselves were covered in books from top to bottom, giving the aura of a small study. Knowing Mycroft as I did now, I could only assume the room was a revised mini-library, seeing as his social standings appeared weak at best in my view.

"I hope this will sufficiently support your needs, and offer my apologies for any lingering dust you may happen upon. It has been some time since my last guest," he informed.

"No, no," I waved away the need for any penitent remarks, "It's very nice. Lovely actually. Did you design it yourself? Or maybe had someone else...?"

"I held some influence in the matter," Mycroft responded, returning to the door, but before departing stated, "Unpack and get accustomed for a moment. When you're finished we can discuss your future actions."

With that said, he closed the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the room. Yeesh. It's as if he thinks I'm about to embark on some perilous journey never to come back or something.

Unpacking my belongings, I came to the rough conclusion that the name Holmes naturally came with a touch of the dramatic interest, not knowing then how my fledgling hypothesis would soon mature into a fully supported theory upon meeting the second Mr. Holmes.

* * *

><p>Oh boy. Can I just say I absolutely despise writing beginnings? It's like I was only meant to compose the middle and end, while just assuming my audience will pick up on those not-so minor details of the exposition. Believe me, for both your sake and mine I'm doing my best to get the start of this ride done and over with. Hopefully by the time we reach the climax of this roller coaster ride I'll still have some riders that didn't jump off to preserve their own sanity.<p>

As for Mycroft's character, I know! I'm working on it... But might I add I feel quite creative in having my OC encounter the elder prior to the younger - although who knows, maybe a thousand other fics started this way as well. Anyways, I'll just leave it at a sorry for all of those I may have offended by portraying Mycroft in this light (if you truly are annoyed then contact me so I can fix it. Please and thank you) and by adding that he will play a majorish-minor role in this story as it progresses.

Yes, I went with Wendy for a name for my OC, and yes there will be references to the fairy tale. No need to keep that a secret. Yet if you think that is all there is too it, boy will I have a blast destroying that idea~

If you liked, then drop a review or fav c;


	3. Pilot - Checkmate

Chapter 3

"Any questions?" Mycroft concluded promptly.

I stared back at him in nearly suppressed disbelief that trickled out of my widened eyes and semi-open mouth. He had just finished a very complex, in depth schedule, fully equipped with times and routes, that I was to adopt as my life for the future week. It even included an 11 o'clock curfew.

Seriously? A curfew? What, was I not 24 but 10? Come _on_. I gathered from what I heard that Mr. Holmes was very coordinated and orderly, but this was ridiculous. It closely rivaled that of Father's strict schedule of worldly tours and conferences, and border-lined a grounding restriction impounded on a reckless delinquent. Believe me, I may not be the most angelic, but I am certainly no ruffian.

"No? Good. Then as for today-" he continued orderly, until I snapped out of my stupor.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I interrupted, holding out a hand to halt the continuation of his speech, "You can't seriously expect me to just sit around here all day for an entire week. I've only just arrived and am one step away from venturing out into my new home before I implode from curiosity and 10 hour flight driven stir-craziness."

"Ms. Verarity, might I remind you that you're not on some carefree excursion, and that the allotted time you have here is for the benefit of your future in terms of both career and education. This schedule was created so that you may effectively utilize your time in the most efficient manner rather than squander it heedlessly," he responded curtly.

"I know, I know – and am grateful for the time you've spent creating it and coordinating all of this, but it simply won't accomplish much of anything for me," I countered, hardening my stance to combat his own, "If I'm to be cooped up here for a week straight, my mind will decay from boredom rather than flourish in knowledge gathered from attempting to predict future events."

"I'm not attempting to foresee succeeding happenings," he argued, "I merely wanted to ease your transition by establishing a _loose_ agenda so that what is necessary may be fulfilled, and what is nonessential may be avoided."

"Loose?" I scoffed, "You call that," I pointed to the brick of an itinerary, "loose?"

"Factoring in potential fluctuations, yes," he confirmed.

I shook my head, "Mycroft, you can't expect me to comply to such a rigid schedule that – by its mere existence – conflicts with my very character. I don't want a life planed out to the very last minute, even if it allowed for optimal results. There would be no risk, no joy, no life. At best it would only prevent me from progressing and prove distasteful to your own expectations."

A momentary silence fell in which he seemed to contemplate his response, and probably deem my explanation absurd and green while he was at it. In that stage of stillness, I caught sight of a well carved, granite chessboard a few feet away. An idea began to take root in my head.

"How about we make a deal?" I offered, rising from my seat.

"Pardon?" Mycroft replied, ending his fixation on the ground diagonal to him and facing me.

"A deal," I reiterated, picking up the board adorned with multiple pieces and carefully maneuvering it onto the table resting between us – no easy feat considering the pieces wobbled from even the slightest tremor.

Once securely in place, I continued, "If you can beat me, then I'll comply to your plan with no complaints or outbursts whatsoever."

"Yet if you should prove victorious, I shall allow you the freedom of selecting a timetable of your own accord," he finished.

"Pretty much," I smiled and sat down once more, "So, do we have a deal?"

"I hope you realize that such recreations as wagering foolhardily are beneath me," Mycroft warned.

"But..." I encouraged.

"So I cannot approve of authorizing a bet to ensue between us," he concluded.

"Oh come on Mycroft!" I protested, "Surely you have nothing to lose. I mean, you're a genius. How hard could it be to beat me? Besides, you're not risking something recklessly, only for sport… with some added benefits of course."

He gave me a stern look, not budging in the slightest to my whims. I sighed, changing pitch, "Look, all I want is something to distract me from the upcoming dull week I have in store. So please? It'll be the only thing I'll ever ask of you upon your success," I pleaded, going so far as to exhibit a small puppy-dog eyed expression – which I doubted would prove fruitful, but what the heck? Anything to give me a little leeway with the stubborn man.

Mycroft remained rigid, unaffected in the least by my antics, and why shouldn't he? Surely he's dealt with his fair share of whiners in the realm of politics. I was mere child's play compared to what he's managed. However, I suppose I had some sort of mystery perk – perhaps due to bloodline or professional ties? – and he ultimately gave in with a sigh as if deciding that agreeing with the childish action to be the lesser of two nagging thorns.

"Very well; let's get this over with," he complied.

"Great!" I cheered, all pouting washed away instantaneously as I shifted my chair closer to the table so as to not have to bear the weight of leaning over for every move; although the extra action would've been remedying for my restlessness, "Best two out of three. You first."

I paused, waiting for him to commence the mini tournament all the while fidgeting in glee. No movement followed, causing me to sequentially glance up at him. He gave me a scolding, unamused look – his previous hints of a smile long hidden behind the current frown.

"Problem?" I asked, "What? Do you want me to go first?"

"Ms. Verarity, those weren't the terms of our agreement," he responded stringently.

"Come on, you're hung up on that?" He gave no comment. I sighed, "At least let me milk this for what it's worth. Best two out of three."

"I believe you agreed to only one favor," he pushed.

"Indeed, I did. But only if you won," I corrected, knowing full well he knew and was just trying to get me to give up the notion. A valiant – yet ultimately futile – effort on his part, though I applaud him for trying.

He frowned, but conclusively moved a pawn forwards, initiating our game. A grin lit my face and I had to try hard not to leap for joy. It probably would've resulted in him retaking his words and leaving me to sulk in a dark tunnel of boredom. In short: not something on the top of my wish list.

I won't dive into detail of the sport, but I must say it ended far quicker than I expected. Mycroft must have really desired to end it as soon as possible and was making good headway. If I wanted the moment to last more than an hour, then I really needed to pick up my game. He meant no jokes; I'd just have to do the same to the best of my ability.

Blinking, I accepted my defeat, "Well done! Ready for round two?"

I began to set up the board when I noticed my host giving me an odd look, as if debating whether or not my complexion was a pale-tan or tan-pale. Basically, it wasn't one with an air of confidence as most victors sported post-triumph. I genuinely couldn't explain why, so I resorted to question after making the first move and waiting for an amount of time.

"You alright there Mycroft?"

A smile concealed his expression. "Yes. Your move," he simply replied.

I made it, but kept up the conversation, "Really? Cause a moment ago you appeared rather lost. Is there something you'd like to ask?"

"Are you attempting to distract me?" he inquired, taking one of my pawns, "Because if that is indeed your strategy, then I'm afraid you'll have need of revision."

"No, no," I shot down the assumption and chuckled that he would let himself get too absorbed in the thought that it became physically plain to the sharp eye, "I only mean to ascertain your well-being. Return the favor, if you will." I took his pawn and quickly added, "But not in this sense."

"Oh? Care to elucidate?"

"You know full well what I mean," I replied, giving him a look that told I called his feigned unawareness, yet still clarified, "I want to return the courtesy you showed me – like how you went out of your way to accommodate me."

"As I mentioned previously, solely traditional hospitality and measures to safeguard my country's image," he brushed away my words.

"Really? I'd say it goes just a bit beyond everyday hospitality and certainly more personal than in regards to protecting your nation's reputation," I raised a skeptic eyebrow.

Mycroft tilted his head, "And what makes you say that?"

"Well besides coming yourself in person to greet me despite having at your disposal some 20 other subordinates that could easily suffice to take me to you for a welcoming, moving around the furniture that surely was occupying my current lodgings which couldn't have been a very easy task, cleaning and re-stocking your fridge," I began to answer as he gave a three-fourths concealed look of suspicion at my up-most comment. I quickly added, "Yes, I know, or at least strongly suspect, you to have refurbished your selection of cuisine in the name of basic home keeping upon expecting guests. Or perhaps maybe so that a venture out into society could be avoided as I see you'd prefer not to undertake given your past comments on the topic. But back to the original discussion, the notion of objective hospitality is just incorrect – as proven majorly by my sheets."

He paused as if trying to make out what I'd said truly came out of my mouth, that or because in the entire short time we've spent together he'd probably reasoned such monologues beyond me. I agreed to a point, seeing as I didn't typically give speeches outside of conference rooms or debates to new people, and was grateful for the respite to catch my breath.

"Your…sheets?" Mycroft finally stated, the words coming off strangely to him as evident of his expression.

"Precisely," I affirmed, "They're made of 350 thread count, teal, Sea Island cotton – the exact same as I had back in America but ultimately lost due to moving complications. Now unless people have taken to obsessing over my premier choice of bedding down to the thread count and color, you've contributed much more effort than can be classified as mere hospitality. I can only assume you recalled my father mentioning it a few years back while he came to London for a meeting prior to Christmas. That was when he acquired the ones I previously had, and additionally he may have passingly touched upon the fact of the fate of those sheets while confirming everything with you."

Gah, I really was talkative today. I took a moment to take a breath and finished with a smile, "Either way, thank you. I'll do my best to return the kindness. But, again, not like this."

I moved my bishop, taking out his rook, and stated, "Checkmate."

I don't know if it was from the fact I beat him or that in those five minutes I covered more topics and expressed more knowledge than Mycroft deemed me capable of, but he genuinely stared at the board for a good 20 seconds straight to confirm my victory. Boy, I was just chock-full of surprises. Returning the favor there too I guess – and again, only day numero uno.

He recovered momentarily afterwards, blinking moisture back into his eyes and clearing his throat to buy time to find the right words. "Well done. It seems your strategy wasn't as faulty as I assumed it to be," he congratulated, clearing and resetting the board for the final match.

"Are you still convinced about that?" I tittered, preparing my side, "I told you, my plan isn't to distract you. All that was just casual conversation, if you will."

"Casual? Rather exotic for the everyday exchange between two people," he remarked, taking the first move, "Although I must say it did manage to keep my attention occupied as opposed to the common discourse of the public."

"Good," I beamed, "Maybe after this week I can actually get you to enjoy spending time outside long enough to get you freely and willingly consenting to a venture into the city at a time other than the vacant three o'clock."

"That's quite an ambitious feat," he chuckled in dubiety, "But rather than dream of that coming to reality, why not focus on the present game? I assume you still desire to win."

"Of course – and no slacking on your part for that matter. If I'm going to win, I want it to be real and not out of pity," I told him, and as a result a smirk lit his face.

From then on, our competition evolved into a dance of complex moves backed by intricate strategy with the steady buildup of chess piece casualties… or at least that's what it must've appeared to be like to an onlooker if we should have had any. I mean, Mycroft maybe followed that logic, but I simply let myself sink into the moment, relishing in the carefree action of playing a game (although considering what was at stake, carefree may not be the best choice of mental state, yet I still felt the overwhelming sensation of tranquility).

Despite what my host may believe, I truly didn't aim to defeat him through such transparent a tactic as distraction. No, no. That was much too cliché and therefore dull. Instead, my true game plan was indeed much more simple-minded, yet that is where its advantage was – in the very enigma of its nature. It was a natural way of accomplishing things but vital if one wishes to remain alive. However, children appear to utilize it far more than the average adult, and the adolescent perhaps on par with the child. Do you know what it is? Don't worry; I won't leave you hanging this time around.

It was in the midst of our battle that I finally observed a peculiarity about my opponent other than his quirky habit of keeping an umbrella in tow at all times. In a matter of personal opinion, I believed it to be something other than a real umbrella. Rather it was some super covert military weapon or what-not that he was assigned to protect incognito at ever moment lest something catastrophic occur. That or I was just being overdramatic from basking in the fact that I finally made it to London and got someone like Mycroft to play a game with me in the first two hours of my arrival. Or because I was still delirious and recovering from jet lag. Who knows?

"Father never mentioned that you were in a relationship," I commented casually.

Mycroft gave me a perplexed look, "My, where do you form these abstract, remote deductions?"

I shrugged, "I don't know, but they don't seem that way to me. Just have an eccentric way of thinking I suppose. But this one is simply because of that," I gestured towards the golden band on his right hand. "Although it's more commonly placed on the left hand, in some cultures the ring is found on the right hand, and countries like Argentina, the US and the UK are slowly conforming to the more Orthodox tradition. So see? Not entirely abstract as you claimed, though farfetched is relatively on target."

"I see," he nodded, accepting my explanation, "A very logical and completely understandable way of arriving upon that conclusion – yet ultimately incorrect, I regret to inform. Your father's lack of mention on the subject of my personal social life and interaction between any potential person of interest is not surprising seeing as I'm in fact not in any relationship of that manner, both currently and formerly."

I gave a confused look, "So why do you wear it?"

"Why do you choose to don a scarf?" he shot back and went further to explain, "Perhaps I'm partial to it, or wearing rings suits my taste."

"Alright, I'll take that," I nodded in understanding.

"You doubt my mentioned reasons?" he inquired.

"I feel as if there's more to it than that, but I could be simply extrapolating what I'm trying to see," I shrugged, "You know, like one of those riddles in which the answer is plain as day yet you're unable to find it due to overthinking and analyzing the clues."

"Ah, riddles. Such an amusing way to pass time," Mycroft mused, his features taking on a nostalgic aura, "I always held a particular curiosity towards them, but ultimately ceased entertaining such activities."

"Why?" I frowned, "Surely you enjoyed them, so why stop? It's not as if they caused any harm. If anything they're beneficial by helping you think out of the box."

"True, but I merely grew too preoccupied for such trivialities," he stated, "That and my brother held an obscure animosity for riddles, likely as a result of solving them only after I did."

"You have a brother?" I asked, raising my brows in surprise.

"Indeed, he lives here in London as well. Perhaps you'll encounter each other during your stay. Although considering your different locations, the probability of that is slim; and even if you should happen to chance upon one another, I can't guarantee you'll enjoy his company."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Let's just say his expertise lies in the realm of detective work rather than social grace," Mycroft offered.

"Detective work huh?" I mused, "Sounds interesting. Maybe if I ever get a break from University I'll track this brother of yours down and see for myself what he's like in person," I grinned.

"I highly encourage you not to, but your decision not mine," he responded with a final hint of warning so as to scare me away from the prospect. But now that I figured out Mycroft had a brother living in the same enormous city, there was no chance I'd let the opportunity pass me by. Wonder what he's like? Maybe similar to Mycroft? I didn't know if I wanted to see another person like him in the same room together – too much higher-than-thou thinking.

"Yeah, well it won't be for some time at least. I presume when I finally catch a break I'll have likely forgotten him entirely," I said passingly, "That is, unless you'd be willing to introduce us."

"I'd rather keep you two apart as long as possible," he smiled.

"Understandable," I condoned, "I was merely giving you some options of where to show me while we're out and about this afternoon."

His smile gave way to my own. In his eyes one could plainly read something along the lines of 'Oh no you didn't.' Oh yes I did.

"Care for a stroll about London Mr. Holmes? It's a bit chilly, so I recommend you wear a coat or something to keep warm," I instructed, standing to grab my own and leaving him alone to glance down at the chessboard.

As I walked I faintly heard him chuckle an old saying that appeared just as relevant here as it did on the other side of the Atlantic, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice-"

"Shame on you Mycroft," I finished, "Don't let the simplicity outsmart you."

* * *

><p>Wheww! What a long chapter, and still no Sherlock yet! But rest assured, he'll definitely be in the next chapter c;<br>As for updates, if you haven't already guessed, I update on weekends which may be subject to homework load. But yay for you guys! I have a three day weekend with No homework, so potential update on Monday.

If you like, give a favorite or review c;


	4. Pilot - Charlatan Grins

Chapter 4

"Ahh, the smell of fresh air… Isn't it wonderful Mycroft?" I smiled, stretching my arms out wide into the air blissfully, earning a soothing sensation for my stiff muscles and curious stares from pedestrians passing us by.

"Dear, the smog must be affecting your cognitive perceptions. We should return lest you progress further into delirium," the man gave a mock concerned frown.

"If that were the case then I'd have had symptoms when I landed," I corrected, turning to face him, "You're gonna have to put forth a bit more effort if you want to dissuade me from enjoying the vivacity of city life, Mycroft. Or you could simply just give up and let go. Your choice, although I'm partial to the second option."

I grinned and continued down the masses of people passing by, embodying the phrase 'a fish swimming up river' but without the figurative complications. A list of places to visit and revisit ranging from Hyde Park to the London Eye streamed through my mind. There was enough time, right? Yeah, I mean, it's only one o'clock – plenty of time. Although, should I wait a bit so that it could span the entire week and so not to leave me with unlimited-ish freedom yet nothing to do with it?

I glanced back at Mycroft, whose head popped up out of the waves attempting not to lose sight of me yet momentarily doing so in his pursuit every so often. Boy did he look annoyed. There was no way he'd ever let me drag him out again, that's for sure. So I guess that settles it. Time for 'shove as much fun and entertainment as humanly possible into one day' plan to commence.

"Come on Mycroft!" I said while pulling him through a bundle of teenage tourists, "We've got a ton to do and not much time to accomplish it."

"Oh?" he breathed, still in the middle of reclaiming his breath, "What do you hope to achieve exactly?"

"Everything – so come on, pick up the pace! Our first stop is just around the corner," I gleamed, jumping forwards, "Hurry! Hurry!"

I began to rush forwards as he called after, "Hasty feet will miss the way, I believe the proverb goes."

"Nice," I twirled around to face him, "It does mention something along the lines of patience, but I never pegged you as a religious type."

"Must one be partial to a spiritual belief to read the Bible?"

"No, but I know of a few die-hard atheists who wouldn't venture within a good three foot – or I guess it's a meter here – parameter of one. All I'm saying is that you have to be at least a bit interested in the material to put forth the effort required to study it – especially in the case of long, dense reads like Moby Dick, Crime and Punishment, or the Bible."

"Valid point, but to clarify explicitly, I prefer to refrain from such activities. The very principle of participating in theological groups is…" he paused, glancing momentarily at me, "not suited to me."

"Huh," I smirked, "Well no need to fret over it, we'll tackle that topic later. As for now let's focus on what's in front of us – like Britto's pyramid over there," I pointed towards the object with Egyptian symbols and pictures in vivid colors, and began towards it, "Besides, the fresh air and exercise will do you a favor."

"What was that?" he asked, slightly disgruntled.

But I paid no heed. Nope, all of my attention pinpointed on achieving a perfect day of adventure before Mycroft imploded from prolonged exposure to the public or I short circuited from exhaustion. Regardless, determination fueled me forwards and I could count on it for at least three more hours. From then on, the friendly hand of caffeine would take over for the rest of the journey, making my plan nearly full-proof if I do say so myself. Sure, things could happen, but I was far too confident and stubborn to let this golden opportunity pass me by at the hands of discouragement.

Understandably though, my farfetched agenda remained incomplete, with a little more than half of the locations left pinned on the map I nabbed from a kiosk by the London Eye, where I chanced upon beautiful panoramas of a resident artist that managed to perk Mycroft's interests enough to actually comment on them. Through most of the journey, he seemed to drag himself from stop to stop, and even threatened to leave abruptly or make some excuse to go and have one of his assistants or underlings accompany me for the remainder of the day, but ultimately stuck around – probably accredited mostly to me countering with a threat to tell of his inhospitality to some official or whatnot. That sure did the trick, although I did feel a bit bad for playing the cheap card, especially when we toured the London Dungeon and the assistant person forgot to open up the hall of mirrors and we wound up circling around for a good half-hour, resulting in both of us resolving to depart (in my opinion I think Mycroft actually was a bit frightened of continuing on to the torture room anyways, which is understandable considering some of the exhibits).

Yet I suppose some part of my host genuinely enjoyed the time spent mingling around like ordinary people – I for one did. That or he was just eager to complete it all as soon as possible since, by some odd circumstance, we managed to cut to the front of every line and rat maze we happened upon. Sure, it could've been my own rep at play, but then not many seemed to recognize me, and typically if I was found out I'd be forced away by the multitude of crazed fans rather than allowed passage. Fortunately though, it only occurred once during our attempt to view Shakespeare's home, where a very devoted admirer of mine with insane Eye-Spy skills spotted us clear through the crowd and vocalized his sheer glee.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my fans and all the wonderful comments and support they provide, it's just the borderline stalking that gets me. I mean, how would you like it if some random guy knew potentially more about you than you yourself? Just a bit creepy. Now add the fact that he can't stop boasting about possessing every published and non-published photo of you, and you get the gist of where I'm coming from. Yep, that's why celebrities and big names have bodyguards or a decent disguise people.

Anyways, by the time five o'clock strolled around a good chunk of the list prevailed, but we came to the mutual consensus of locating a reprieve for our agonized stomachs. Fortunately, the pain only lasted a few minutes as we located a small little bistro on the corner of Frith and Romily that quickly admitted us, allowing our feet some much needed rest all the while providing a nice atmosphere for afternoon tea. Our conversation remained small, as both of us honestly held more interest in the delicacies before us than patronizing our guts through talk. For once I didn't mind the silence. It actually carried an essence of tranquility with it – a moment's sanctuary from the world's bustling urban life that swarmed all around – as opposed to the previous awkward moments with Mycroft, who now, to my delight, appeared perfectly at ease.

Ultimately, it failed to stand as the only gratifying surprise I experienced at our outdoor, dapple sunlight coated table. Mycroft actually began a casual conversation – or, to be precise, as normal a discussion as people like us could manage, "Enjoying yourself?"

I looked over at him, startled by his voice into halting at mid sip of my tea, yet overwhelmingly joyful in the proceeding moment. Swallowing, I nodded, "Yep! I haven't felt this happy in… in, well, a long time. Although, I may just be so exhausted that I'm slap happy," I chuckled, adding evidence to my hypothesis, "How about you?"

He gave a small chuckle at my response, likely have grown accustomed to my eccentricities enough to find mild amusement from them. Well good. Better than strict, straightforward and formal.

"For once your observation isn't far off. Perhaps fatigue's effects are reversed for you, sharpening your attention to minor details of introspection. As for your inquiry, I find myself feeling particularly delighted, though not as vibrant as your expressed cheer," he punctuated with a smile.

There it was again, _the_ "smile." The one I observed countless times that day. One I knew all too well, and had witnessed many a person exhibit. In truth, existed in a state akin to a veil, displacing any and all reality it could muster, yet essentially failing to completely enshroud its contents. It presided as an existence that betrayed itself as well as its owner, covering both in a sly fabrication. For no happiness, joy or positivity presented itself past the slim upward pull of the muscles around the mouth. Rather, something contrary claimed domain, and if not for previous encounters, I'd likely never notice. But then that's the realm of politics for ya, a swarm of the same "smiles" all around.

However, that is where I ceased my delving. To another of a more conspicuous or iniquitous manner, I'd continue digging until every last detail presented itself. But Mycroft was no villain, or at least he didn't appear so in my perception. In fact he assumed quite the opposite role in my eyes, becoming a friend/acquaintance-like figure to me, and I resolved not to risk shattering any possible connection we may have formed to gain otherwise private knowledge reserved to him and him alone.

Still, it was precisely due to that budding bond that I became prompted to relay my concern, but in a manner of caution so as to not startle the opportunity away.

"Why must you continuously contradict yourself?"

When he gave me a familiar look of befuddlement, I clarified, "You're always cavorting around in that mask of yours, hiding away how you truly feel as if revealing it would somehow leave you vulnerable or impaired indefinitely. Why? I realize it is something of a necessity in your profession, but surely you needn't prolong the action and thus cause yourself more grief than warranted."

The look in his eyes from my soap-opera speech was exactly what I counted on: overwhelmingly unamused and annoyed. And who could blame him? Here I was lecturing a guy I'd only _just_ met about how to live _his_ life. Talk about pointing out the splinter in your neighbor's eye while being downright oblivious to the plank in your own. Honestly, if he hadn't pushed me to this extent, I'd never have gone in that direction. Indicating other people's problems while blatantly ignoring your own outright boils my blood, and the fact that I was in fact doing the exact action, albeit a planned charade, made my skin crawl as if I were some cat getting its fur rubbed the wrong way.

In all, not the best of commentaries to present, yet my lines were not totally erroneous to my own principles. I genuinely desired to find out why someone with a seemingly secure position and identity as Mycroft would opt to put forth the effort to conceal his emotions at all times. I certainly could find suitable support to his method, but surely the cons outweighed the pros in this situation. I just couldn't seem to wrap my head around it. Thankfully though, it appeared my melodramatic words did the trick, although that "smile" of his remained.

"Ah, another one of your queer inferences. I do believe they're becoming quite pervasive – not the best of marks to be exhibiting I'm afraid," he responded evenly.

"Yes, yes. Though I take them to define me as unique instead of dully normal or prone to insanity – which is an interesting thought, but decidedly for another time," I matched his lighthearted tone, but only for a period. The humor drained away to a heavyweight manner in mere seconds as I continued, "See? You're doing it right now, smiling when you're plainly irritated – or, to put it more generally, _not_ happy."

"Am I? And who are you to determine my personal conceptions of events?" he straightforwardly addressed, smile barely wavering yet the tempest turning in his eyes.

"No one," I shrugged, "But I'm opt enough to distinguish between genuine and façade. And I care enough to point it out to you."

He made no reply, instead choosing to study me with tattered-veiled intensity that otherwise would've scared the crap out of me had we not been in the presence of so many potential witnesses. Nevertheless, I held my gaze constant and even began to pity him. If he couldn't be honest with himself, how could he expect to be true in the company of others? All that was leftover was himself and his mask – a very lonely existence indeed, and not one I'd wish upon anyone.

Regardless, I easily concluded the slim possibility of me getting through to him in a measly hour. The best option left was to let time take over the fight until the topic resurfaced once more, assuming I'd remain around by then of course.

Sighing in submission, I averted my gaze at last, "I don't mean to berate you like a child Mycroft, and if that's the air you got, please forgive me. All I wish is to know the real you instead of some counterfeit – and wow that was cheesy. I blame exhaustion," I laughed at myself, shamefully avoiding his direction and heavy silence.

Well, there goes another relationship down the drain – and a promising one at that. Oh well, long week here I come! Perhaps I could befriend the dust in my room or that assistant girl or some random-

A muffled sound of some weird, freaky hybrid of chortling and sharp exhales tore my concentration from self-pity and directed my focus to the source. It was Mycroft – or at least it looked like him, sort of. His face flushed due to lack of available oxygen since his hand was obscuring his mouth, and the corners of his scrunched eyes were noticeably dampened. Miniscule fidgets rippled from his body and forced him to relinquish his posture. The whole scene, frankly, scared the hell out of me. Only one thing passed through my mind: Oh crap. I think I broke him.

"Ohmygosh are you alright?" I spluttered, hesitant to suddenly act in case it threatened to further the strange happening, "Do you need help? A glass of water? Or a napkin? How about sugar, or a doctor, or a blanket? Some air? Space? Or-Or…" I flailed about to find a remedy to his odd behavior, yet only adding to the madness.

At some point I offered my fork, which held no helpful purpose whatsoever. By hey, I was desperate. In the end I found myself praying – or rather pleading – to God to stop the insanity and even make myself appear the fool and have my entire discussion fall on deaf ears, never to resurface again, if only to just get him back to how he was before. Anything other than the horror before me. Anything.

"My, you haven't changed a bit," he finally managed, putting an end to my crazed struggle.

I stared at him warily, unsure of his state of being. For all I knew, the simplest of words like 'banana-grams' could send him back into delirium, yet I managed to squeak out, "W-What?"

"Oh you are definitely a peculiar one, Ms. Verarity, I'll say that much," he continued, wiping the corners of his eyes with a kerchief, "I do find some facet of your sermon to be worthy of contemplation, but I'm afraid most of your concern is unfounded as I am perfectly content with my current lifestyle."

"A-Alright," I quickly concurred, eager to part from the turbulent topic while things were somewhat promising.

But Mycroft wasn't quite finished addressing all the points of my lecture. Oh great, what had I gotten myself into? Stupid impulses and lack of control! Once more, I defer to enervation's fault. Fortunately, however, it wasn't in the direction I'd though.

"Your request for me to be open to you is a naïve one, but I'm willing to comply upon seeing for myself your awareness of what it entails, for I cannot guarantee you'll be fond of my true character in regards to your own personality traits," he warned.

Finally I seemed to catch my bearings once more and steadily replied, "Well yeah. I wasn't asking for you to dote on my every action and thought. Just the idea of that repulses me!" I shuddered to prove my distaste, "No, I don't care if we don't see eye-to-eye. In fact I expect it, and eagerly so in any relationship I form, because without there'd simply be nothing of interest to discuss at all."

"Indeed. Then I'll attempt to put aside professional habits in your presence, if the situation is deemed appropriate of course," he agreed.

"Certainly," I smiled, and for a moment the discussion seemed to end there, but then a thought came to me and I fervently acted upon it, "And we can start right now."

"Oh?" he tilted his head, not quite catching my drift.

I gave a small chuckle. "I mean, seeing as we've basically agreed to be real to each other it implies that before we weren't Mycroft Holmes or Wendy Verarity, but two other people. So now that we're actually meeting for the first time, we might as well greet one another; as is the proper thing to do," I explained, extending my hand, "I'll start. Hello, I'm Wendy Verarity. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He shook his head but nonetheless couldn't suppress an amused huff. "Alright, I'll play along," he responded, taking my hand in his, "Mycroft Holmes, and the pleasure is mine Ms. Verarity."

"Just Wendy is perfectly sound," I corrected, attempting to push things along a bit faster out of excitement.

"One step at a time, Ms. Verarity," Mycroft rejected the notion.

I frowned, unhappy that things would proceed in a painstakingly slow pace. But the sour feeling only lasted a few seconds as a smile – a real, honest-to-God, genuine smile – formed on his face. It was small by all measures, but I could care less. Boy did I beam like a silly kid walking into the living room to see thousands of presents on Christmas Day or suddenly have discovered Charlie's chocolate factory in the backyard. The day was a rollercoaster ride, that's for sure, but things seemed to end with a high note.

Or at least it would have if things ended there. You see, fate is a funny thing, what, with throwing curve balls at you and what not. Don't look now, but a bosey is coming and there's no stopping it now.

"Afternoon, care to share your cuppa with a parched passerby?" a man abruptly addressed, approaching our table and deftly plucking my cup from where it stood, "Thank you."

I blinked, caught off guard by the seemingly arbitrary occurrence, "Excuse me?"

In reply, he took a sip.

* * *

><p>Ahh, this chapter... Now I understand why people chose to have an OC meet Sherlock or John first rather than Mycroft. Goodness, please don't butcher me. Save the torches and pitchforks for tomorrow when I come back to revise this mess. As for now, it's late and, like Wendy here, I'm exhausted and borderline slap-happy. Good night, and Happy Eat More Chocolate Day<strong><br>**

Review or favorite if you like c;


	5. Pilot - Fans

Chapter 5

"Much thanks," the man exhaled, his throat finally satisfied it seemed.

Well good for him. I'm glad at least one of us felt perfectly content, cause I for one couldn't make sense of anything – and I won't even go into what Mycroft's reaction looked like underneath that façade of his. It was bad enough that the effects of exhaustion attacked my mind until it was reduced to its current semi-coherent state, but now it had the added strain of this bloke to deal with. Consequentially, the overload crashed my entire cognitive process and resulted in my delayed reaction. Once more, thank you Mr. Stranger.

After being allowed a few breaths to reboot, annoyance trickled back at the forefront. I truly thought I'd left such arbitrary antics back home in America, deeming them contrary to English custom. Either I was incorrect in my assumption or this guy simply rebelled against any and all norms. Chances are the truth rested somewhere in between, yet it still left me at odds and ends.

"Uh, you're welcome?" I finally got out, not bothering to conceal my confusion. Please, my mind could only handle so much. And besides, that simply required too much effort then what I was willing to give at the moment. "And you are…?"

"Someone for another day," Mycroft cut the man's response off, earning him an irked glance from Mr. Stranger as he rose from his seat and pulled me past the man.

Obviously someone didn't like weird men randomly popping in to take a swig of lady grey tea. That or the fact that this guy was a stranger - or both. Who knows? Anyhow, totally understandable. You know, stranger danger. Don't get into the car with the creep who offers to let you pet the puppy while nomming on some candy sort of deal.

But this guy failed to emit such vibes. He was odd, that's for sure. And rather than putting me off, he seemed to attract my interest the longer I studied him. Just something about those eyes… What colour were they? Blue? Green? A mix of the two? And how could they possibly belong to such a klutz? They shone with intelligent intensity that gleamed with an alertness that made me doubt seeing him stumble so uncontrollably into our table. Additionally, they reminded me of Mycroft's grey-blue eyes, except where his lacked noticeable enthusiasm and drive, this guy's was bustling like a steam engine about to run off the tracks. Quite suspicious indeed, if I may add.

In short, he was like me: an enigma. Now that I realized this, there was no way I'd leave without figuring him out. Sure, Mycroft wouldn't be too pleased upon prolonging our time with the odd man, but he'd have to deal with it. My curiosity was perked and needed quenching. That and although my teenage years were behind me, the devious impulse of rebellion and adventure was still in tack.

"Alright, but shouldn't we pay first?" I innocently asked.

"I believe this will suffice," he quickly answered, throwing a few bills on the table and continuing his getaway.

Crap. Now there was no viable excuse I could conjure to stay a while longer. Plainly I've never met Mr. Oddity, so claiming to recognize him would surely backfire even if he went along with my act – which would be a bit creepy, but I'd be grateful nonetheless. Claiming to have forgotten something didn't work seeing as all I brought was my cell, which was comfortably in my hoodie's pocket. Opting to stall by leaving a tip was out as well since Mycroft left quite a hefty sum on the table. Lucky day for the waiter, not so lucky day for me. I suppose my curiosity would remain parched… Or so I thought. It appeared the strange man shared my will to continue the conversation.

He snatched my other hand, jerking both of us to a stop. We both looked – or rather I looked and Mycroft glared – back as he started, "Please, just a moment. I wish to repay her for her kindness. Surely you won't deny me the expression of gratitude."

"Not at all!" "I'm afraid we must," Mycroft and I replied simultaneously.

I turned to give him an annoyed look that demanded a cessation to his antics. He responded with an equally dissatisfied expression. It was nice to see him keeping his word on maintaining honesty in regards to emotions towards me, but it did little to settle me down. Timing man, timing. Sleep deprivation may have made me more intuitive, but it completely destroyed my luck.

"Are you forgetting your own agenda? Last I checked, a great sum of activities remained to be completed," his casual tone disguised his ill will towards prolonging our stay with the man any further.

"I'm certain a slight detour won't irreversibly affect our plans," I countered, hardening my gaze for a moment before turning to Mr. Oddity and softening it, "Please do continue. I'd hate to leave you with unrequited feelings of reimbursement. Perhaps something simple? Like…" I trailed off until I spotted a sweets display inside the store, "Getting me that muffin - the one with the orange liner. Or, if that's too much, telling an interesting tale, such as to how you wound up sipping on my cup of tea. Your choice," I smiled.

A flicker of amusement passed through his eyes. Great, I wasn't scaring him away. Perfect! Mycroft was probably rolling his eyes, but I could care less. My curiosity was saved. Salvation at last!

"Thank you for your kindness," he gave a small bow of gratitude and flashed a smile of his own.

At the sight of the expression, my glee melted faster than snow in the height of Floridian summer with 100°F lows, or about 38°C for those on the metric scale if anyone was wondering. I had to chomp down on the inside of my cheek to stop an exhale of disappointment from escaping – although the resulting watery eyes didn't particularly help my cause either. But really? _Really_? I _just_ finished dealing with one and another pops up not even a minute later. It seemed I couldn't catch a break, so I prepared to leave with Mycroft. Sure, it might spur him to act with an air of arrogance, but I honestly didn't have the energy to deal with the topic again for another week, let alone minute. Still, I was disappointed in departing from such an interesting person, but could only glance back at his "smile," so much like Mycro-

Wait…. Just like? Again? Yellow flags going up.

"Who did you say you were again?" I inquired, giving him a suspicious look over.

"I'm afraid you're imagining things, I never mentioned my name. Not surprising as you clearly have only just arrived from America – Florida, I presume from your southern accent and monosyllabic pronunciation of 'orange' a moment ago - and denied your mind rest for, eh," he tilted his head from side to side as if weighing two thoughts, "eighteen hours, give or take an hour due to the cramp in your neck. Really, you had a luxurious first class seat and didn't bother to make use of the extra room and lower your chair for added comfort? How wasteful. It would have lessened the impact of jet lag on your stress levels and relieved some of that under eye colouring at least."

His speech transformed from friendly-casual to dissecting and borderline intimidating as he explained his observations with sterile precision, all the while seemingly gaining three inches from the space separating us, forcing me to lean back ever so slightly. Once more I was caught off guard, yet the new change of tone began to settle things in place ever so neatly. All the same, in spite of the circumstances and creepy feel of his unforeseen knowledge of my previous activities of the day, my interest was a blazing fire by now, and unfortunately for Mycroft I wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"Huh," I mused, turning more towards the man, "Anything else you want to add?"

"I highly advise otherwise," Mycroft intervened, giving one final attempt.

"Yes, and we'd still be here yet under duller and more silent circumstances until this man stalled enough in retrieving his wallet to engage another topic," I rolled my eyes, "Instead of going through that unpleasant scenario, I'd much rather continue on our present, more amusing course. Wouldn't you?"

"No," he simply replied.

"Oh, ignore him. He's just eager to return to the solitude of his lodgings," I lightheartedly waved away the invisible thoughts while returning my attention to the man, "Please do continue, and quickly if you may. I don't know how long I can keep him," I winked.

Although slightly victorious in concealing his own surprise at my proposal – which I suppose arose from others' rejection in the past to even meet the guy let alone ask him to progress in the frankly rude and disarming onslaught – the man continued, starting by scanning myself in a manner less disguised than before, "You value intangible qualities of personality and morals over physical appearance, likely due to some lack of satisfactory returns in the past but ultimately atypical of someone of your generation."

I nodded, accepting his drawn conclusions, "Nice. A bit harsh but at least you're being honest and straightforward; I'll give you that. So, how'd you tell?"

"Your mismatched attire," he gestured to my red jeans and made his way up to my yellow tank partially visible under my grey hoodie and black scarf, "while also an indicator of your recent travels, they additionally reveal your preference towards personal comfort over more professional and public appealing outfits suiting your social status. You don't care for others' opinion of yourself, and more specifically your mien, so you must hold significant confidence in either your rank or your own accomplishments. My money's on the latter. Additionally, you own a pet. From the fur on your left shoulder I presume a small one, likely a petite feline or, although against statistics, one of the rodentia order. Still, if such were to be the case in regards to the latter, it would correlate with more hoydenish tendencies on your part, as well as a closer bond to your father instead of mother, probably due to work. As you know, hard to get by these days without a job and we all know how much hours a nurse puts into her routine."

I chortled in amusement, sparking another inquisitive look from the man that distinctly begged an explanation, so I answered, "Wow, that's pretty amazing."

"Really?" he raised a brow, even more startled and somewhat wary than before.

"Yeah, I mean, you can say all that in a single breath? Dang. You must be a swimmer or something," I chuckled, and then shook my head to clear the confusion in the room. Poor guy, Mycroft may be accustomed to my own oddities by now but he was just getting started. "But enough of my fascination in probably unsupported claims. My pet preference and personality aside, why do you presume I am of the higher social caste and flew first class for that matter? I could've simply won a trip of sorts and live an average life, for all you know."

"No, your posture is much too refined for the typical middle echelon resident," he recovered quickly while shaking his own head to dismiss my words, "Only parents with a strong will and motivation derived from a pressuring public eye would drill such manners of conduct into their child to the extent where she continues to exhibit the formality several years after leaving the house. Although your current bearing is slightly loose, indicating the rising dominance of your own values over past expectations, it nonetheless signifies your status. And added with your hands," he turned mine over in his own, "the proof is almost overwhelming. You see, a normal working class person of your age would have formed callouses by this point from entry level occupations that require physical input across the board, yet yours are smooth. And why not? It's much simpler to live at home and get support from Mommy and Daddy than go through the effort to obtain a dull, hardworking job. However, your being here tells of a displeasing outlook on that lifestyle. Probably out of the equally boring circumstances that entail mulling about days on end with nothing to do. But why start now? And so far from home? Simple, you tried and failed already in America – deeming it too close instead of the difficulties of rigorous university life, as taken from the callous on your right ring finger that, while also indicating your dextral preference, complements the conjecture of a busy college life with multiple essays likely spurring from an interest in literature and recently completed exams, along with the extensive array of travel documents needed upon entry to this country and wrapped together with the ridges of stress clearly noticeable in your nails. If you wish for such knowledge to remain with you alone, I advise painting them over in clear polish, since you're obviously not the type to coat them with any vibrant colour."

Whew. The guy could talk. And once more, without losing his breath in the slightest! No wonder Mycroft was repelled by him. He could barely put up with the excited chatter of tourists in line for three minutes, so this fellow must've really appalled him with back-to-back soliloquies. But I had to hand it to this guy, he was good - better than what I've seen for ages. Perhaps I'll keep an eye out for him in the future in case the silence of Mycroft's flat gets to be too daunting.

"Wonderful, wonderful," I gleamed, and would've clapped had either gentleman released their grip on my hands. They probably were awaiting the chance to either take off, in Mycroft's view, or prevent me from doing so until whatever purposes were met, as in Mr. Soliloquy here. "You were very accurate in your deductions. Just a few tweaks here and there and you'll be famous. But no worries, you still preformed marvelously, and can forget about the muffin. Consider your debt paid in full."

"I made a mistake?" he inquired, narrowing his eyes to retrace where any blunders may have occurred.

"Unfortunately so," I remarked, "For one, you never really answered my question. You left out the potential of abnormalities arising in all classes where an individual assumes a more proper standard of living in order to gratify feelings of pride and honor, so my choice in posture doesn't necessarily indicate I'm of a higher class. Secondly, I opted to wear this style of clothing – which isn't at all mismatched, although I understand seeing as knowledge of Floridian universities isn't commonplace or particularly useful here – not solely out of rebellion against modern fashion, but out of a desire to stay incognito, if you will, as my own reputation has grown somewhat exponentially in recent years. Next, you were only slightly off in your presumption of my choice of animal companion since I own a flying squirrel. I advise you stick with your gut the next time around when presumptions arise, for if you had you'd have been correct. But just because I prefer smaller, less popular pets than most of my gender, doesn't mean I have a stronger affinity towards my father than my mother. Those feelings stem elsewhere and I won't divulge in the reasons today."

A look of disappointment crossed his vision at the holes in his observations, and I gave a small squeeze of his hand to prompt him to look at me once more. "I'm afraid I must abide to my companion's wishes now, seeing as another break in the action isn't likely to occur anytime soon and he probably won't be able to endure another round of this. But I will leave you with this," I finished, reclaiming my hand from Mycroft and scribbling down on a napkin before handing it to the man with a wink, "Have a splendid day."

He glanced at the message all the while grumbling as if berating himself for forgetting something, "Ambidextrous."

I gave one last amused look and returned my focus on Mycroft, who mercifully persevered the entire spectacle and at last seemed relieved to finally depart. Odds are we were going to head back to the flat, or he'd go back at least. And I don't blame him. All of this must've left the guy exhausted. If he chose to depart, then I'd let him; but only this once – I say as if he'd actually agree to any of my plans ever again. Sheesh, people these days.

With this all in mind, I held no restraint in my disenchantment as I spoke to him, "Honestly Mycroft, you made him out to be so much better than what I've witnessed. Frankly, I'm a bit disappointed in this brother of yours. He held so much promise, but I suppose he'll have to settle for mildly impressive. And as for you Mycroft, speak up next time when someone you recognize pops in. Don't flat out avoid him either, especially in this man's case. He's your brother for goodness sakes, not some virus."

Both simultaneously preformed a synchronized double take. They really shouldn't hold themselves so high above everyone and unreadable. Please, anyone could catch the resemblance in cognitive process, keen observations, and similar reactions affiliated with siblings. Although, the true give away was Mycroft's corresponding desire to keep his sibling distant from me, aforementioned back during our chess tourney and subsequent actions - creating a clear picture of their relationship. Man, I was on a roll! Maybe I should take tests with sleep deprivation way more often. No one would ever guess my secret, that's for sure.

Finally, the brother gathered himself enough to speak, "Disappointed?"

"Yes, yes," I affirmed, "All that time you spent memorizing Wikipedia information and you couldn't even bother to actually figure it out yourself," I shook my head, "At least you could've read the paper or, hey, talked to your brother if you wanted to see me."

"What makes you think I looked up anything? And that I wanted to see you?" he frowned, clearly displeased with my response.

"Please, I've seen enough fans like you to tell a true detective from an amateur search engine user. All your 'deductions' were simply retained facts in your head with a few minor conclusions drawn here and there for effect," I sighed and began to walk away, "I do truly hope next time you'll be more convincing, and you can start with what I gave you. Until then, I wish you well Mr. Holmes," I waved without looking back, feeling his stare bore into my back yet ultimately brushing it off.

Although I was disillusioned in my perspective on the other Holmes, I couldn't help but smiling. He may have indeed looked all that stuff up, but there was a chance he was just as brilliant as his brother. It all depended on his take of the note I left him – that and if he had the patience and will to meet up and talk with me once more. Even I found myself lacking in reuniting, but a small flicker ignited in me, causing hope to form of the situation coming to pass. All I could say was that the Holmes family sure had a unique pair of brothers. I wonder how the holidays played out?

* * *

><p>My goodness Sherlock has some lines! Gah, they were a pain to write let alone speak out (poor Cumberbatch with those enormous speeches).<br>I hope you like though! :D

Review or favorite if you like c;


	6. Pilot - Déjà Valise

Chapter 6

"What goes up but never comes down, and everyone has one?" I murmured the lines of the riddle wearily.

My feet waywardly tumbled to and fro, threatening to trip each other yet doing so in a manner that portrayed a funky looking dance. The pain of consistent travel dulled by exhaustion crept up my body but I kept going. Where to? Well I don't know. It was my first time in London alone with no sense of direction, courtesy of Mr. Sleep-Deprivation. But what about the map or my cell phone? Yeah, well you see the wind snatched the map while my faithful GPS died twenty minutes ago – leaving me stranded in some random street in all of London. Yep, my life in a nutshell, fully equipped with self-conversations powered by 20 straight hours of consciousness.

"I don't know," I breathed, taking a moment's rest to lean on an iconic red telephone box, "An umbrella?"

The thought prompted me to Mycroft for no apparent reason and I sighed. From my pocket I drew forth its meager contents: my deceased phone, a jangle of American change, ticket stubs and other articles of paper, and… Hm? Where was it? Oh come on! I couldn't have lost it. I mean, I _just_ got it for peat's sake!

Graciously, my stress levels were only on the verge of hair loss when I noted the item mingled in with the array of coins. Oh gosh… I rubbed my face in disbelief and self-criticism all the while attempting to get some increased blood flow to my weary brain. I really needed some sleep.

Glancing half-consciously down, I turned the key over in my fingers, recalling Mycroft's words shortly before his departure about an hour ago. And yay exhaustion for providing blurred visuals to accompany the recollection:

_I had just rounded the corner when Mycroft finally snapped out of whatever business he still had with his brother and, as I predicted, went on to explain his sudden change in schedule that arose not so unexpectedly after the family reunion._

"_I'll arrange for one of my subordinates to rendezvous with you at Piccadilly-" he began, taking out a small notebook, whose purpose likely laid in revising his own schedule. _

_My goodness, I really needed to work on him a bit more. He was way too legalistic about everything. Perhaps I'd hide the notebook, and say something along the lines of him misplacing it… Yeah right. And then the sun would decide to shine blue. Still, the prospect remained very entertaining, especially in the upcoming free time I acquired._

_First things first though, I needed to get out of babysitting duty. "Whoa there, you want me to meet this guy in Piccadilly?" I raised a brow, "You do realize the place is crowded on a normal day right? You must. I mean, even _I_ know that, and I don't even live here."_

"_Correct, and the congestion of civilians is ideal for a secure assignation," he responded, returning his attention to the book, "If you begin your trek now, you'll reach the meeting point in approximately fifteen minutes given the average time and flow of traffic lights and pedestrian walkways. Once there, you shall wait until-"_

"_Until my babysitter arrives?" I huffed, crossing my arms._

"_Ms. Verarity…" he began with a disapproving gleam in his eyes._

"_Just hear me out," I started, not wanting to initiate another debate while daylight slowly drifted from my grasp. Luckily he seemed to relax enough to boost confidence in my follow-up, "I may be a tidbit rusty on London hotspots, but requiring some escort is a bit redundant don't you think? I'm more than capable of handling myself and if I get lost," I whipped out my phone, "My handy-dandy GPS will serve a much better guide than some stranger I frankly don't wish to meet."_

_He gave an unconvinced huff, "I believe it vacuous to put so much faith into a flawed piece of technology, especially one with only half a battery remaining."_

_I echoed his pique with a huff of my own, "_Only_ half a battery? Obviously you're not accustomed to the ways of conservation. Half a battery can easily last me a full day – assuming I only preformed minimal tasks I'll admit – yet still enough. Were you going to suggest I make use of some other, perhaps archaic method of finding my way? Cause believe me, I'm well versed in how to use a map by myself."_

_Mycroft's annoyance appeared to be on the rise, the proof lying in his now crossed arms and look akin to an elder sibling's vindictive stare. Regardless, I kept my case standing as long as I could manage. No way would I put up with it! Surely he realized that even if I did comply with the arrangement it was only a matter of time until I ditched the guy – an easy feat in a bustling city. Hopefully Mycroft could come to the conclusion that letting me off the leash proved much simpler and less burdensome than attempting to keep me under surveillance, because I truly didn't believe I could squeeze out enough energy to stand my case if things prolonged themselves any longer. Apparently he shared my desire to quit dawdling around and get productive. _

"_Very well," he exhaled deeply, plunging a hand into his coat pocket, "You may continue on your own. But, I expect your prompt return no later than midnight," Mycroft sternly instructed, giving me a look that demanded no competition._

"_Of course," I beamed, nearly bursting with excitement. _

_I'd achieved the impossible! I mean, it's not every day you can get someone as inflexible as Mycroft to agree to your side three times in one day. Luck? Nah, I don't believe in such things. I do, however, have the inclination that my sleep depravity influenced matters a bit – as absurd as that may seem. But enough thinking, time to get moving!_

_Before I could make my escape, my host halted me, "Not just yet," he instructed, prompting an inquiring glance from me, "Aren't you overlooking something?"_

_I rummaged my head for the solution but came up empty handed, "Uh, no?"_

"_My, perhaps letting you venture off in solitude is a mistake," he sighed, "How do you expect to enter my flat upon your return?"_

"_Simple, you'll surely be there before me and let me in. Now may I go?"_

"_You assume that I'll return prior to you, but what if your conjecture proves false?"_

"_I don't know. I'll wait outside."_

"_In the middle of London? Not a very keen decision."_

"_Please, I've been in sketchier places," I scoffed._

"_That may have prevailed then, but currently is an entirely different circumstance," Mycroft warned._

"_Alright then, what is your proposal?" I frowned, growing impatient. _

"_Only a better solution, assuming you don't misplace it that is," he simply replied, handing me a golden key, which by its pristine state had barely seen any use. And why would it? I doubted Mycroft handed out spares to random strangers on a daily basis, or to guests for that matter._

"_As for expenses," he continued, pulling out a blue twenty euro note and handing it to me, "This should suffice."_

"_Thanks, I'll try my best to avoid purchasing every shiny souvenir and make it last," I winked, although Mycroft remained rigid as ever. "Kidding. Sheesh, lighten up a bit; it was only a joke," I chuckled, commencing my departure._

_He shook his head as a cobalt vehicle pulled up beside us, "Midnight, don't be late or-"_

"_Or I'm pretty much grounded," I grinned, "Don't worry. I'll be back before then."_

"_I'll hold you to it," he gave a wry smile._

"_Like I'd expect any less," I smiled, depositing the loot in my pocket and waving over my shoulder, "Don't wait up for me!"_

"Nah, too cliché and besides, not everyone has an umbrella," I finally concluded in resonance with my stomach growling.

Man, I needed food. Tea was hours ago, and the last thing I ate prior consisted of funky tasting airplane breakfast that left an even stranger bile behind. My eyes scanned the area to locate a suitable place where £20 and some spare American change could get me a nicely portioned meal. Although, driven by my appetite, I seriously considered withdrawing my praise of the smaller meal sizes despite health implications. Besides Chicken Cottage, nothing fit my slim budget, so I resolved to have my first meal there.

That's when the oddities started up. Splendid timing as always. The last thing I needed was some out of whack occurrences plaguing my mind. Might as well send me off to the asylum while I could still walk while we're at it.

Moments before entering the Chicken Cottage, the land line inside rung. Yeah, I know; a phone ringing inside a food shop. Big shocker huh? I agree, except this wasn't the manager's or drive-thru's extension, it served for public use. Now I'm not some genius, especially in my current condition, but a public land line ringing is just a bit sketchy don't you think? I mean, who calls a random ambiguous line? Obviously someone who doesn't give a crap who they talk to, or on the more malevolent side, not someone you want to have a casual conversation with at 21:00.

A few meters away, another spotted the sketchy occurrence. I nearly jumped for joy, not explicitly because he noticed it but rather his reaction confirmed I wasn't hallucinating or at least not alone in crazyland – and yes, it makes a difference.

We both glanced at each other as if to confirm our observation, and simultaneously returned our gazes to find a worker approach the phone. Brave soul. I found myself torn between warning him not to answer lest he get tangled up in some conspiracy or what-not, and letting things play out for entertainment purposes. What? It wasn't like I'd let him get killed. I'd just wait around long enough to get a good taste of the drama first. Don't blame me; blame the boredom, or sleepiness, whatever tickles your fancy.

Just as the man's hand touched the phone, however, the ringing abruptly ended in a fashion that signaled the other line hanging up rather than timing out. And the mystery just kept building. Honestly, could it pick any worse of a time? It was hard enough to fight off the urge to pick a corner and take a snooze without the shady phone ringing off the hook.

Speaking of calls and public lines, I suppose I could've called Mycroft to send a ride over or something. But then there was a problem. Not that I didn't have the cash to do so, rather the issue lay with the basis that his number rested in my dead phone's memory. Goodness, technology these days… Sure you could get a bunch of people's numbers programmed into your device but the moment you part from such luxuries that special feature might as well be thrown away. No wonder my grandmother always berated me for overdependence on electronics.

Still, even if I had recalled his number, there stood little chance I'd call. Please, and suffer through an 'I told you so' talk upon our next meeting? No thank you. I'd rather crash at some church or street corner than that.

My stomach's growling once more prompted me from my thoughts. Right, starving away here a few feet from a food store. How ironic would that be? I chuckled at the thought and proceeded forwards, only to get interrupted once more.

_Ring ring!_

My gaze shifted to the iconic red telephone box beside me. You're kidding me. Again? Across from me, the same guy shared my puzzlement and suspiciously looked around. Good, he caught on to the sketch too.

"I don't suppose you're expecting a call," I spoke up in a light tone to diffuse the circumstances if only a tidbit.

He smiled, "Nope. Are you?"

"Not unless it's me from the future wanting to have a word on my stubborn behavior," I chuckled, returning my sights on the ringing phone. "I guess we should answer it though. You know, before it starts following us around."

"Yeah, too late for that," he breathed, opening the door and reaching for the receiver.

I shifted uncomfortably but nonetheless smiled at his straightforward manner in addressing the problem. A part of me worried about his safety – more so than the poor worker before, that's for sure. That guy stood young and healthy, a good match for any potential villain; but the man before me, although strong and exhibiting experience in the realm of combat, appeared more fragile. His sandy hair bore silver streaks from stress, and the presence of a cane didn't help matters.

Prior to him answering, I called, "If it's some shady character don't let it worry you. I'm certain the two of us can take him on."

He gave a small laugh as I grinned and continued into the Cottage, "If you need me, just holler and I'll dash out with extra hot sauce to sear the eyes out of Mr. Sketch."

Hopefully my light take on the situation dulled some of that stress I observed on him. It sure took some away from me, but nevertheless I kept the man in sights. If it really did turn out to be malicious, there was no chance I'd let him take the fall alone. Still, if it turned out to be a prank, then I suppose we could both laugh over it sometime later.

"Next," the cashier called, and I quickly proceeded with my order.

A few moments later, I carried a well sized bag of to die for smelling chicken and fri- no chips. Wow, that rolled off the mind oddly, especially with the different version back home in America. Why do countries have to make things so difficult? The English language was hard enough on its own – the poor souls attempting it for a second language… But I suppose the fluctuations in timbre and word choice attracted far more than repulsed me.

I nabbed a few extra napkins and glanced up to check on my new pal – who disappeared into some car that drove off. I stood staring for a moment, caught off guard. He didn't seem to go unwillingly. Maybe a little sketched out, but definitely not forced. I let the thought soothe my conscience as I exited the place and began snaking on the meal while aimlessly walking in hopes I would stumble upon a familiar sight. And lo and behold, I did just that. Although not in the way I expected.

Just a block away was the tea-snatching younger Holmes, looking around in prospect for a taxi I presumed. I nearly choked on the piece of chicken in my mouth upon the sight, and ended up coughing louder than I'd have preferred. The noise attracted his attention and he briefly narrowed his eyes as if to affirm his observation as well.

"Fancy meeting you here," I rasped, clearing my throat of the lingering bits of food, "On a casual walk about? With your," I paused, glancing at his possession's superfluous pink hue that starkly contrasted with his demeanor. I raised an eyebrow, "valise? A bit out of your style and gender association, don't you think?"

"I would exchange a greeting as well, but I'm in the middle of something of much more importance than a pedestrian stroll," he responded matter-of-factly, "As for the suitcase, it's not mine."

"Obviously," I huffed, giving the object a closer look. Something about it seemed awfully familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. An uneasy tone slid down my back, resulting in a less than concealed fidget, which Mr. Holmes keenly caught onto.

I opened my mouth to speak when he cut me off, "No, I did not steal it."

"Okay…" I gave him a weird look.

"What? It's a perfectly logical conclusion based on the circumstances," he continued, "Faulty, but logical."

I shook my head, "Right, but not where I was going."

"And where would that be?"

"Nothing, just..." I exhaled, "Déjà vu I guess."

He rolled his eyes, likely taking me to be a babbling distraction to whatever he had on his plate. Not wishing to leave on that note, I elaborated, "Besides, you don't seem the delinquent type. Even if you were, you'd be a pretty dense one to snatch that. The size alone-"

"Wait," he interrupted, "You recognize the case?"

"What? No," I frowned, "I mean, it looks familiar but there must be a thousand-"

"Taxi!" he called, once again interrupting me. And not at the best of times, seeing as my patience weathered away swifter with my sleep deprived mind.

Not long after, a faithful cab pulled up and he climbed in but left the door open.

"Forgetting something?" I inquired, glancing at the suitcase beside me.

"No," he replied, waiting expectantly. When I didn't catch on quick enough – which, might I add, was in the span of twenty seconds tops – he added, "Are you going to stand there like an idiot all night? Get in."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at him. What was he playing at? Me getting into the same vehicle as him when we've only just met? He might as well tempt me with a promise to see a basket full of puppies while he's at it. Well sorry to disappoint, but he just got demoted to the sector of super-freaky fans.

Although, he was Mycroft's brother. Chances are I could squeeze out an address if I tagged along - and weighing the odds with wandering around, I found it much more suitable. Grabbing the bag, I lifted it into the cab to rest between us and closed the door.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked curtly.

"Baker Street," Holmes answered promptly and we set off to where I presumed the brother lived.

I could only imagine what Mycroft would say upon realizing that not only had I misplaced my map and would likely return later than the appointed time, but was once again in the presence of his brother going to his flat. He'd pop a vein, but then what he doesn't know won't kill him right?

Glancing at the brother, I started, "Care to explain why I'm here?"

He kept his gaze set on the window, "Oh, nothing really. Just avoiding supererogatory glances."

"Great, nice to know I'm being used efficiently," I rolled my eyes and glanced out at the city streaming by in a ray of lights. Silence descended for a bit, but I didn't want it to progress further into the realm of awkwardness. Nope, dealt with that already in the presence of the elder, no need to repeat with the younger.

"Figure it out yet?" I asked

"Hmm?" he looked from the corner of his eye.

"Did you solve it?" I prompted, "You know, the problem I gave you."

"Oh that," he breathed, returning his gaze to the window, "I threw the note away, no need to busy myself with frivolous sport."

"I see," I nodded, "I mean, I understand. Not everyone has the capacity to think creatively. No harm there."

If he was anything like his brother, then that ought to perk his attention, and indeed, he actually turned his head fully in answer, "The question you presented has nothing to do with my cognitive capacities, which surmount the majority public, including yours if I might add. I simply desired not to squander the time to entertain such trivialities."

"Yeah, yeah. I've heard it millions of times before," I shook my head, "You might as well own up to it. At least then you could save some pride in being honest."

"Only an imbecile would risk everything in the name of image and candor with an outlander," he scoffed.

"True, but at least he'd save himself from appearing an overconfident fool who believes himself incomprehensible and adept at concealing a lie," I countered, reaching over to his coat pocket and pulling out the napkin, neatly folded in a manner so not to mar the words written inside. Whew, thank goodness that presumption proved correct. No telling what would happen if things went contrary.

I smiled at his displeased look. I suppose he wasn't accustomed to other people acting with an audacity like his own, and directed towards him for that matter. Sort of a taste of his own medicine deal. I didn't mind since it allowed me a moment of entertainment and the opportunity to get under his skin a bit. Perhaps I'd even learn something while there.

Opening the napkin I read aloud, "With thieves I consort - with the vilest, in short. I'm quite at ease in depravity, yet all divines use me, and savants cannot lose me for I am the center of gravity." I looked at him, "What am I?"

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought he'd blow me off, but I suppose the prospect of a challenge appealed too strongly for him to back down. In those sea green depths, I observed his meticulous calculations blurring all around, producing the same storm of thought seen in his sibling's gaze. How odd it was, that the two vaguely resembled family physically, yet were nearly twins upon witnessing them process information.

A minute of silence passed and I smiled, "Got it yet?"

He inhaled, blinking perhaps for the first time since the question was proposed. He must also have some serious stare competition practice or contacts to accomplish that without tearing in the slightest. I suppose the contacts would additionally explain the striking hue of his irises, magnifying them explosively to the point where you couldn't help but marvel at them… Not that I was at the moment, though I'll give him as much to say they did fascinate me.

"I won't waste my time for your entertainment," he concluded, shifting back to the window.

I laughed, halting his progression, "Yeah, I thought so."

"Thought what?" he frowned.

"You don't have the slightest clue," I grinned.

"No, I simply wish not to carelessly squander my energy," he countered, but I didn't buy it in the least.

"Sure. You're just too stubborn to admit that you don't know the answer when it's as plain as day," I goaded.

"And you presume you're superior to me because of that?" he huffed.

"Well, at least in this area," I confirmed, "After all, I know the answer and figured it out much faster than you."

"Care to elaborate on the solution then?"

"No way, that'd ruin all the fun," I chuckled, "Besides, if you're anything like Mycroft, this should be a piece of cake for you."

"I'd prefer you refrain from comparing me to my brother," he growled, "The only thing we share is heritage, nothing more."

"Alright, I won't expand any further in that area. But I must deny that statement entirely, you two correlate in more ways than just parentage," I calmly replied, earning a glare from him. "Back to the matter at hand then?"

He momentarily withdrew into a snit, but ultimately spoke, "Fine, seeing as abiding to your desires remains the only probable solution of ridding me of your incompetence." I frowned but let him continue uninterrupted, "The answer to your inquiry is simple. It is the mind."

I nodded, "Very well thought out. Fits perfectly with everything, although a bit of a stretch in the sense of depravity."

"How so? The root of all depravity rests in the mind, corrupting everything below. In short, a neat match," he defended.

"True, but ultimately a stretch and therefore incorrect," I responded.

"I gainsay," he argued.

"And you've gained no ground whatsoever," I shot back, "You may have a good solution, but it isn't the right one."

His eyes flashed angrily, "It solved the problem, therefore proves more than acceptable."

"But it doesn't fulfill critical points," I simply stated, managing to contain my annoyance in a better fashion than him surprisingly.

A tense atmosphere widened from him, enveloping the whole back seat. Yet just before it could influence my ire, the taxi came to a halt and the cabbie alerted us to our arrival. Relieved, I began exiting the vehicle but was stopped when Holmes grabbed my wrist, pulling me back down.

I gave him a frustrated look, demanding an explanation as he gave an order of his own, "Tell me the answer you consider superior to mine."

"And I suppose you won't let me go until I comply, huh?" I sighed, "No need to be so dramatic."

"Just answer the question," he growled.

I smirked, wondering how his obsession would influence his reaction upon the true solution, "Alright then. The correct solution is:…"

* * *

><p>Sorry for the long wait! Scholarship applications and school just take it all out of me, but lovely reviews may change that :D<br>Probably going to revise this one as well once I find the time, but I hope you all like for now. By the way, the answer is in the title c;

If you like then favorite or review c;


	7. Pilot - Sherly

Chapter 7

"Preposterous!" Mr. Holmes yelled, angrily storming past me.

"Whoa now, no need to get worked up," I chuckled at his tantrum, "So you got it wrong, big deal. Everyone makes mistakes."

"I'm not everyone," he growled, unlocking a door with golden 221b nailed above a quaint knocker.

He darted in, leaving me to lug in the suitcase. How unchivalrous of him, but based on what I've seen thus far, totally unsurprising.

"Could've fooled me," I muttered, entering the space to find a neat little entry way. Following the noise, I hauled the luggage up the stairs, grateful that the owner opted not to pack her entire wardrobe like most others.

"Man, you really need to tidy up a bit," I commented, eyes scanning over the clutter as I entered the room.

The place looked as if a litter bomb went off after a tornado swept by for a chat. He probably just moved in – or at least I'd hope so. If not, he really needed to talk to his brother about tidiness. Such a messy environment was unproductive to say the least, especially if the guy really was some detective. Although, I suppose order rested with the chaos through an infinitesimal amount in regards to something along the line of 'oh, I remember throwing that paper on this heap of boxes' sort of deal.

"The solution is undoubtedly false, probably derived from an inebriated fool," he continued his ramble, wholly ignoring my comments.

"Or you simply can't accept it and elect to act like a kid in some temper tantrum rather than someone your age," I rolled my eyes, "Seriously, I've always thought that riddles bring out the best of people, although in your case an overgrown child's temper tantrum may skew such thoughts."

He grumbled, "Of course; such doltish riddles never cease in their inadequacy. Ah!" he ruffled his hair, "I've wasted precious time for fruitless blabber."

"Sheesh, no need to hate," I sighed when the thought finally hit me.

"Ah ha!" I snapped my finger, attracting his attention, "That's right! Mycroft mentioned your antagonism of riddles, although I presumed he exaggerated to be honest. Seems I miscalculated there."

At the mention of his brother, the sibling glowered, reminding me of my fraying promise, "Oh sorry, not supposed to mention the other Holmes. My bad," I nonchalantly apologized, "So, care to elaborate why you nabbed some poor lady's luggage? I presume you asked, or found it and intend to return it right?" I gave him a stern look, doubtful if he actually kept it for Good Samaritan purposes.

His scoffing reaction didn't help, "Please, why would I do such a frivolous thing?"

"Oh, just common courtesy. You know, what _normal_ people do," I said acrimoniously.

"Dull," he muttered and I shot a quick disapproving look.

"Really now? Then I suppose I'll just alleviate you from the 'dull' prospect of stealing people's belongings," I growled, picking up the case but ultimately going nowhere as he quickly barred the way out.

"I already told you, I didn't steal it," he huffed. "Has your feeble memory failed already?"

"Says the one who couldn't solve a simple riddle," I scoffed.

His ire manifested in his features while we exchanged hardened stares. Neither one of us was willing to back down, but I held an advantage he didn't. I was deprived of all rest that fueled every ounce of sympathy within and stood far away from Happyville. Slap-happy Wendy left the building; super cranky Wendy took her place – and Mr. Delinquent was treading dangerous waters. So I gave him a warning.

"Move."

"Of course," he gave a feigned smile, shifting slightly to the right. Well dang, that was unexpected – I mean good. Yeah. He finally gained some sense. About tim-

"On the condition you relinquish possession of the bag," he finished, grabbing the corner of the item.

"As if," I scoffed, jerking it away, "I may be a little off my game but I'm not stupid. No, it's coming with me."

"To accomplish what? Returning it to the proprietor? Please," he sneered, "Don't act so sanctimonious."

"Hey, don't lump me in the same category as you," I said irately, "I'm simply doing what you should've done."

"Oh do enlighten me," he rolled his eyes.

Any trace of former amusement dissolved from my features, and I plainly answered, "Go to the police. From there they can deal with the missing item and your misdemeanor."

"If you honestly think they'll prevent me from retrieving the case, you're more moronic than I deemed."

"If you honestly think I give a crap about what you think, then you're more idiotic than I pegged you for fan boy," I huffed.

"Good god," he seethed, "Stop making such ludicrous deductions. Has it not occurred to you that I am _not_ your habitué? A simple glance tells of my distaste of your presence, yet you're delusional enough to believe it fancy. Well let me put it to rest: I am not your 'fan boy' and the sooner I'm relieved of your company the better."

"Yeah, yeah. You just keep telling yourself that," I contemptuously replied, moving towards the door once more and again being blocked. "Alright, last warning. Move."

"No," he mirrored my tone, adding an extra bit of his own annoyance to the mix.

Huh. My lip's left side twitched up in vexation. So he wanted to play this game? I truly hope he knows what he's getting himself into, cause honey I've got five years of military self-defense drills and a black belt on my side. Unless he could top that, he'd better get out of my way lest things turn messy and bloody - in terms of his nose of course. Fortunately for him, our tense face off never commenced. Instead, an odd sound similar to a whimsical owl-songbird hybrid turned all animosity into confusion.

"Ooh hoo," the intonation echoed by a light knock on the door frame pulled my attention behind Mr. Holmes to a delicate older woman. "Brought back a friend Sher-"

"No. Rather a thief," he gruffly responded.

"A thief?" My voice echoed the woman's yet in an infuriated way that startled her in such that I continued solely, "Excuse me, but that's your title bucko."

"Oh dear," she murmured while his own mouth gave an irritated twitch.

"I disagree, as you are so plainly embezzling that case from me," he growled, glancing at said item.

"You're one to talk," I scoffed, "After you kept it away from its owner or any person able to return it."

"And you believe the authorities would squander their time – fruitlessly searching for its proprietor? If you truly desired its safe and swift return, than you'd allow it to remain here. I assure you, there resides no one more adept to the task than myself."

"My, aren't you the modest one," I muttered.

"How absurd," he huffed, "Anyone who includes modesty among the virtues stands contrary to all logic - and thus myself. Things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate someone is as much a departure from the truth as exaggerating his power. The exact and literal reality always trumps any and every subjective notion."

I gave him a weird look until recovering slightly enough to mutter, "Right; cause everyone wants to be called an annoying, obnoxious prick all the time. Lovely. Can't wait to see the next UN meeting."

"Oh? You propose all matters of communication be enthralled with lies? Hardly what I'd expect from someone of your beliefs."

"Please, only an idiot would suggest such a thing. I merely doubt your own proposition that all must be straightforward - as if the world is some flat object with no depth or surprises. The reality stands that such a scenario can never exist so long as we all believe different things. Modesty, in some sense, may be a stretch of the truth but it sure as hell beats a monotonous world of the same things 24-7 all year every year. Although if that's what you want, then by all means Mr. Holmes," I gave a mock gesture for him to theoretically pursue his goals; he gave no comment, just deepened his frown slightly at the mention of something unpleasant in my response.

And so, blipper of silence began, only to end upon the woman's outburst, "Oh that must be the fourth's right Sher-"

"Yes, now care to busy yourself elsewhere? Perhaps put on tea or, more effectively, depart from my flat?" He rudely interrupted.

"Hey! Don't take your incompetence out on her," I swatted his shoulder. Before he could snap back, I averted my attention to the woman, "Sorry, rough night. What were you saying? Something about a fourth person?"

"Oh yes," she answered, "Haven't you heard dear - about the suicides?"

"Suicides?" I frowned.

What was happening here? The fact that the news failed to reach international headlines yet dispersed effectively among the city residents felt unnerving to me. I mean, they were tragic events, but to gain this much attention in a city the scale of London? Something sinister was up, and it appeared to surround these suicides - if they were in fact that.

She nodded, "Horrible tragedies, and one victim barely grown at that."

"And you think this belongs to the latest victim?" I glanced at the suitcase, suddenly feeling the illogical urge to release it. Had it not been for Holmes' prying gaze, I'd have succumbed to the impulse, but no way would I allow him the opportunity so I steeled my grip.

"Well it is here, and according to Sher-" she began.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He suddenly shouted, causing her to jump.

"Yes, yes. Tea, how forgetful of me," she scuttled off.

I scowled at him, "Was that really necessary? You could've had the courtesy to let her finish talking instead of indulging you impatience. Or hey, make your own dang tea!" Ungrateful prat. And they called us lazy.

"I find it imperative to prevent evidence leaking from a classified case, so my concern is rightly justified," he simply rebutted, "As for the tea, I hold no desire for such beverage presently. So once more, your deduction proves false. How surprising."

"Then why'd you yell at her to make some?" I seethed.

"Apparently you've missed that as well. My, anymore and you risk classifying legally incapacitated," he feigned shock, "I simply warned her not to elaborate on the delicate topic with a stranger. Never did I explicitly mention an entreaty for tea."

"Doesn't make you any less a jerk," I muttered.

"Does your friend have a preference Sher-" the woman called up.

"No!" He gruffly answered. I sighed, realizing my efforts to embed some respect in him would prove fruitless when a thought hit me.

"Sher?" I gave him a quizzical look. He growled, brushing past me as I continued, "Is that a nickname? Sher. Sher...lo, Sher-vu, Sherpa," I rolled the titles off in hopes of suddenly discovering the identity.

"If you hope to achieve something worthwhile, I suggest deterring from babbling nonsense," he snidely informed.

"What? Scared of your own name?" I scoffed, "And the Sherpa, in addition to many Everest climbers, would be offended to hear you dub them rubbish."

"Their opinion doesn't concern me, nor does the mention of my name frighten me. I merely wish to avoid further contact with you, which presents a much simpler scenario upon remaining as estranged as possible. Knowing another's title increases the likelihood of future meetings exponentially, so I opt not to clarify more than what you are already aware of," he replied.

Snorting in amusement, I responded, "Please, you shouldn't bother yourself that much. Regardless of the knowledge of - or lack thereof - your name, your brash character sends any sane person running at first notice. Might want to try and revise that a bit lest you end up alone for the rest of your life."

"I find solitude a solace and efficacious. Much more beneficial than boisterous nonsense acquainted with the masses. But if that truly bothered you then you wouldn't be here, which begs to question: Why are you still here?"

"Uh, maybe because you won't let me leave? Hmmm?" I paused, giving him time to scowl before continuing, "And bs. I don't buy that facade one bit."

"And why's that?" He sneered.

"Because no one chooses to be alone willingly."

Sheesh, this situation again? Although I clearly see the differences, those brothers never cease exhibiting similarities. If Mycroft ever let me within three blocks of his brother after this then a powwow was definitely in store for this family, with a main entrée of social skills and respectability.

"But if you wish to remain by yourself, don't let my presence rain on your parade," I approached the door, waving, "I'll even save you the trouble and let myself out." Unsurprisingly, he blocked my way but hey, can't blame a girl for trying.

"Are we really gonna start this up again? Not a wise move Sherly. Huh..." I thought over the word, "I like that, Sherly. Like a Shirley Temple, though a tart one in your case."

"Again with your absurd outbursts," he moaned, "I'm beginning to think them a chronic ailment associated with you. Ah! How tragic! We should send you off to the hospital before the condition progresses any further." He feigned worry, pushing me towards the door and reaching for the valise.

"Ah, ah, ah!" I tutted, pulling it from reach, "This is coming with me Sherly. As I said before, if you want it so bad you may take it up with the police after they investigate. At least then some hope remains in capturing the criminal in this serial murder case."

"If you sincerely sought the apprehension of the perpetrator and weren't blinded by your idiocy, then you'd leave it with me," he argued, switching up his tactics to appeal to my morals. Smart move, I'd give him that, but still missing one crucial element.

"Am I to believe you're some sort of detective?"

"If you held any sensibility or granule of intelligence, then the reality of my profession as a consulting detective should prove obvious," he scornfully shot back.

"_Consulting_ detective?" I snickered, "If you're going to fib you have to at least stay on the fence of the truth; not shoot way off into left field."

"Once more you fall short of the fact," he exhaled exasperatedly, "Such an occupation exists. I should know - I invented it."

"Well congratulations Einstein, then it won't be an issue if I request to see a badge? Or, you know, something other than a delusional man's word?" I gave him a skeptical look and he stayed still, not budging or even averting his steeled gaze. "No? Shame. Then I'll be leaving," I continued and we swapped looks, with him gaining a comical blipper at my umpteenth attempt to leave with the desired object. And who could blame him? Past record didn't point in my favor, but perhaps this time around we could settle for a draw.

"Although, I may be willing to exchange custody of the case for some information - considering you have it and it's believable of course," I offered.

"Finally, you're beginning to reclaim some infinitesimal reason," he mock congratulated, "And what exposés were you hoping to gain?"

"Shouldn't that be obvious? Really not helping your doctoral detective facade buddy."

"Consulting," he corrected in ire.

"Same difference," I shrugged, "I want to know about the owner of the bag and her connection to these murders."

He narrowed his eyes, "Why do you assume them to be homicides?"

"Getting this much press? Not likely, and as you mentioned earlier a criminal is out there somewhere. Kind of hard to have an outside suspect in suicidal cases."

"Indeed," he agreed, "My thoughts precisely in accordance with the other similarity of the identical drug taken by all four victims. Although I'm intermittently partial to coincidence, in this scenario I find no grounds for it and therefore offered my assistance to Scotland Yard."

"Still hanging on to that mask are we?" I chuckled and he frowned but I waved it off, "Oh go on, entertain yourself. What about the most recent?"

He took a breath, reverting back to an impassive outlook, "Jennifer Wilson. She recently arrived from Cardiff for a brief business trip, intending to stay one night by the size of her suitcase but unfortunately resulted in her becoming the fourth victim. The killer driving her to the desolate, obscure location and forcing her into taking her own life. However, he blundered upon retaining the case after the crime was fulfilled and had to dispose of it for obvious reasons. Therefore, the contents of her suitcase and the identity of Rachel stand the optimal evidence in discovering the identity of the murderer."

"Rachel?"

"Yes," he sighed dramatically as if I was supposed to magically know all about this person, "As she was dying, Jennifer Wilson scratched out 'Rache,' succumbing before finishing the name. A simple calculation reveals her intent to spell Rachel rather than the German alternative."

"And I assume the police are currently tracking down this Rachel in hopes of finding a possible connection to her mother's death."

"Of course, while I tracked down the case – an easy find considering the potential drop off locations within reasonable distance from the crime and void of any unwarranted attention."

I nodded, taking in the information, "Alright then, from what you've said I suppose the killer held connections to all four victims or had the assets necessary to murder all four. Either way, he managed to obtain their trust despite probable ambiguity…" I trailed off, concentrating on pulling together the facts. Vaguely I could feel Sherly's gaze, but I pushed it aside for the task at hand.

"Who is it that we trust without second thought? Who possesses the ability to walk unnoticed among a crowd and not stir up the slightest suspicion?" I murmured.

"Oh, not another one of your petty riddles," he growled.

"No, no. I'm not asking you," I frowned, "I'm asking myself."

"In order to accomplish what exactly?"

"To solve the crime genius!" I explained, "All malfeasances contain patterns, or as I view them, _riddles_. So if I am able to gather all the facts and propose a central question encompassing each piece of evidence, then I can begin to solve it."

"Interesting strategy," he commented, "Rather uncommon in the general public."

"I'm not the general public," I grinned, holding out the suitcase for him to take. He gave a suspicious look while reaching towards it, so I reassured, "Don't worry, there aren't any tricks. Despite doing so in an almost inadequate manner, you've held up your end of the bargain, and therefore I'm obliged to preform likewise."

I released my grip from the item, leaving it in his care. But rather than instantaneously ripping open the item to scan its contents like I would've expected, he stayed still and kept his eyes on me. The entire situation began to grate uncomfortably, and I shifted my weight slightly until he broke the silence.

"Very well, you may leave without any further conflict," he stepped away from the door, clearing the pathway.

I gave a lighthearted snort, "Seems you do have some speck of courtliness in you after all Sherly."

He cringed at the title ever so slightly, "Must you persist with such an absurd alias?"

"If you gave me your real name I wouldn't have to designate a nickname - and save you the grief likewise," I grinned as he sighed. "Don't fret, you needn't tell me now. However, I would be grateful for one other favor."

"And why would I willingly provide such service freely?"

"Well, the alternative rests with me spending the night here, which I assume violates your own desires to never set eyes on me again. So it really benefits you more than me in that sense."

He paused for a moment and then consented, "What else do you want?"

"Your brother's address and a map would be lovely," I answered.

Sherly raised a brow but nonetheless walked over to a box, rummaged around a bit and pulled out a map book, which he then opened and circled a location prior to giving it to me, "I presume that's all you require?"

"Yep," I happily replied, folding the page for easy access, "And now I'll get out of your hair for what I can only assume to be for good – that is unless you don't hand over the case to the police by tomorrow afternoon, to which we'll meet once more regardless of the friction between you and your brother."

"No need to bother, by then I'll have solved the crime and have no further need of the suitcase," he huffed.

Chuckling at his frankly ambitious certainty, I proceeded out, "Then I have nothing to worry. Best wishes Sherly in solving the problem. Just drop the macho pride if things get too dangerous, no need to be a fifth victim."

"I highly doubt the situation turning from my favor," he responded matter-of-factly.

"True, but no need to get cocky," I shot back, adding one last bit before exiting the room, "Just remember the riddle: Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

Silence followed as I called the last bit, "Oh, and try not to throw a tantrum while solving it Sherly – doesn't bode well socially or with solving the problem."

His response, if any, was washed away by the distance as I exited 221b Baker Street in pursuit of returning to Mycroft's flat. I held no intentions to return for I'd seen all I wished to and quenched my curiosity effectively. All that left was to get some needed rest and pray that Sherly wouldn't hoard the suitcase and thus prompt another visit, fully included with snide remarks and complications I'd prefer not to deal with. But no matter, that was another day. Presently all I need concern myself with was getting back before curfew, which would be a simple task. Perhaps along the way I could stop by a bar and snag a Shirley Temple for the road.

* * *

><p>Aand here's Chapter 7! I hope all of you like and thank you - everyone - for sticking with me this far! Introductions will forever be my downfall, but ideally it will improve c;<p>

As you may have noticed, I'm not explicitly following every line of the episode, as I'm sure you already know and would only bore you to include. Therefore I have Wendy as a kind of side character in the first episode with the occasional advice (of which Sherlock only really takes because it is useful at the time). Besides, I think that the relationship John and Sherlock create in the beginning is imperative and don't wish to meddle with it by adding Wendy to the mix more than need be. However, she will eventually integrate into the cases and cause a few facts to change.

Remember to review or favorite if you like c;


	8. Pilot - Epiphany

Chapter 8

I continued down the sidewalk, peeping at the map to double-check my assumption of a nearby Underground while sipping away the remnants of my cherry drink. There was one, right around the corner. Good, the last thing I needed was to wander about more. Knowing my luck, I'd cross the street somewhere down the line only to get sideswiped by a rogue mail cart.

Mail cart? That was rather ambiguous of me – even considering the delusions of lack of rest. Do they even have them in such a large city? I'd think that the more efficient method to deliver letters would be to go by bike than face the horrendous traffic. Although, night trips may prove an exception suitable for the task.

Wait… Why did I care about such a thing? Ugh, I need to sleep.

A flash of color to my right caught my all too easily distracted attention, and I glimpsed at a group of residents coming up from the Underground. By their apparel and loose walking, it was easy to tell that they'd just returned from a night out in the city. Must've been some bar or club seeing as one of the woman donned a shockingly vibrant pink sweater – perhaps more surprising was that she could pull it off well. Man, _I_ wish.

I nearly walked away from the sight without the slightest inclination of any importance, but if that happened then I wouldn't be me anymore. Right as I took my leave to continue down into the tunnel, a random thought hit me strikingly. This wasn't the first time I'd seen that shade of pink. No, it – like the rest of supposed 'trivial' details – had popped up several times; enough so to gain my attention at least.

I shifted the straw to the corner of my mouth in thought. Previously I saw the same hue from the suitcase. That in itself boded unwell, especially considering the circumstances of its owner. Yet the woman I passed was definitely alive, that or those zombie apocalypse loons were actually right. I shuddered involuntarily at the thought. The only thing worse than a cannibal is an undead cannibal. As if they weren't bad enough alive.

Shoving the thought away, I pondered for a moment. Where else had the color popped up? Maybe on the plane? It seemed likely that a passenger wore something pink, yet doubtful at that particular shade. I mean, you could easily spot it in a crowd a mile away. No, it was after the flight. Yeah, that's right... When I was waiting for Mycroft!

Memories flooded back, showcasing the woman I helped hail a cab for. She certainly fit the description in all areas of clothing. How on earth could I forget someone like her? No wonder she couldn't manage a taxi. With that shade of pink? They were probably too intimidated to take her instead of a mundane yet regular looking person. Still, I felt for her. It's not her fault she loves pink enough to dress head to toe in it. Heck even her suitcase-

I paused, grip tightening on the cup. Her suitcase. Even her suitcase was pink. The exact match to her superfluous outfit. A believable replica of the one belonging to the fourth murder. Coincidence? Oh, I hoped so. But my stomach began to tell otherwise. I tried to console myself that my mind was simply playing tricks, having me jump through flaming hoops in a circus ring; but regardless the feeling remained until I started to comply with it.

Alright, so maybe the suitcase did belong to her. That at least fell in the time range that Sherly proposed back at his flat. Therefore she must've met the killer afterwards or perhaps met them at the station. But as far as I could tell, the only person she met was myself and the cabbie, who took her straight into the hands of the murderer, who could peg her as his next target with ease. If that were true then she easily could've avoided the whole ordeal by waiting a few minutes, seeing as the prospect of the murderer sticking around for long seemed unreasonable. Instead, she went that moment, sealing her fate. And the one 'helping' her-

I gagged at the thought, nearly dropping the drink while my stomach turned as I fought to keep what meager scraps it contained down. The heavy weight of the mere idea I'd inadvertently led someone to their death caused me to stumble drunkenly and cling to the nearby wall, a splash of liquid on my ankle echoing the thump of its previous container. Couple with the walls lower temperature, its cool touch presented a welcoming relief, so I allowed myself a moment's rest, not caring about the attention I steadily accumulated.

Closing my eyes, I strained to control my breathing. Calm. I needed to calm down. Breathe. Just breathe. My nerves were on the edge of snapping, and unless I relaxed they'd burnout and likely result in another spectacle I'd much rather not star in publicly. Graciously, after a few minutes my pulse recovered as well as my breathing enough so that I could confidently push-off the support.

Unfortunately, just when I believed my strength recovered enough to last me the trek back to Mycroft's in hopes of letting him deal with the issue at hand (for I'm certain he's overqualified for such matters), I nearly lost it altogether. Yeah, figures. Just couldn't catch a break could I? Though based on my earlier track record, I suppose the wish did seem a bit farfetched.

Yet there was no mistaking it. Coming right past me, in a twist on the signature yellow car I found familiar, was the man from the station that afternoon. At first, I thought 'How odd. Seeing him once again' and went no further. I'd already bumped into Sherly twice, so the absurdity of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's coin toss parody held no sway on me. That is until the chilling realization clicked in my head.

"_Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"_

"A taxi..." I answered my question, hairs rising in apprehension. "Crap!" I breathed, recoiling from the affirmation of my suspicions.

Everything clicked. Jennifer Wilson really was the woman I helped at the station - or rather led to her grave. Ugh, bile in my mouth; bad thought. Indeed, it was the driving force that nearly sent me to the pavement. But I wouldn't allow it. No, instead of letting the shock freeze me, I forced my feet forwards. Left, right, left... The steady progression building momentum until I was speeding after the cab. Losing it now wasn't an option. And although I understood blaming myself proved useless in capturing him, a pressure rested on my shoulders to apprehend him with my own hands. He had to be stopped before another victim hit the papers.

Tearing around the corner, my lungs protested from the sudden effort. My eyes and throat stung from cool, dry city air and my feet felt on the urge of falling apart, yet my will fueled me onwards. I couldn't - _wouldn't_ lose him.

Nevertheless, despite any noble intentions, the reality that a car is faster than a human remained, and I steadily found the cab disappearing in the distance. Puffing, I trickled to a stop; hands anxiously ruffling my hair. I'd lost him.

What now? No way would I nonchalantly brush it off. With the guilt currently poking at my heart? Not a chance. No, what I needed now was someone with the resources to track down the culprit. Someone who'd refrain from asking questions. Someone nearby...

The solution arrived quickly, and I doubled back in the direction I came. Hopefully we'd be able to collaborate or he'd back off long enough to catch the murderous cabbie.

...

The door with 221b nailed on it opened softly, revealing its occupant as he shrugged on his coat, folding a pair of gloves into one of the large pockets. Across, just a meter away, was an elderly cab driver, patiently awaiting the man's arrival; his casual demeanor indicating passive indifference to the resident's guarded gaze.

"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes" the driver informed.

Sherlock stepped down from the ledge, closing the worn door with slightly too much force, resulting in the shaking of its frames. Nonetheless, he remained calm and a smirk lit his face. All the clues, all the facts… Everything began to click in that moment, and once more he gained control.

"I didn't order a taxi," he replied, a knowing yet confident look taking root in his features; almost as if he were egging the driver to futilely play out the game a bit longer.

"Doesn't mean you don't need one," the man simply shot back, unfazed in the least by the other's striking confidence.

"You're the cabbie," Sherlock identified, pocketing his hands to shield them from the crisp night air. His eyes narrowed faintly as memories of chasing down the same cab not too long ago surfaced. Of course. It wasn't the passenger, rather it was the driver. Accepting this, he continued, "The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street."

The cabbie shifted slightly, though not from unease but instead from bearing his weight on one side for too long. His own expression stayed constant as Sherlock continued with a small smile, "It was _you_, not your passenger."

"See? No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer," he confirmed, not bothering to go through with the effort to defend himself, much to the detective's subtle disappointment yet acknowledgement of his intelligence. Still, as he talked, he swayed back and forth, almost as if to keep warm. But such didn't truly seem the case. Perhaps the idea of being unnoticeable aggravated him? Not surprising in this era, especially in the case of an intelligent murderer.

Finally approaching the man, Sherlock cast a glance up at the window of his flat. He'd prefer to get as much time with the culprit by himself before alerting Lestrade – makes for easy interrogation without the strain of regulations. And although he was well aware of the man's capabilities to kill, the detective kept his air of self-assurance.

"Is this a confession?" he inquired, keeping his gaze fixated on the window.

"Yeah," the cabbie consented, earning him Sherlock's attention once more at his quick, unfaltering reply so foreign to most murderers and thus perking the detective's interest, "An' I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, intrigued upon the motives of the man to freely give himself up. There must be a reason, so he asked curtly, "Why?"

"Cause you're not gonna do that," the driver boldly replied.

Fighting back a disbelieving snort at the man's confidence, Sherlock raised his brows and smiled demeaningly, "Am I not?"

Taking note of his reaction, the cabbie paused as if to control whatever emotions rolled inside while maintaining a perfect mask on the outside, "I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves."

He paused once more, allowing Sherlock's smile to dissipate before continuing, "An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing," he leaned forwards slightly for emphasis, "I will never tell you what I said."

A tense silence descended, by which time the detective's air of confidence blew away – replaced by an inner struggle to deduce just what a man could say to convince four differing people to take their own lives. With such a distance between the victims' lives, he found it frustratingly difficult to pinpoint exactly the right words to meet such results. Meanwhile, the cabbie straightened up and began to approach the front of the cab, tearing him from his thoughts.

Not wanting to risk the prospect of him assuming he had won without any trouble, Sherlock spoke up, "No one else will die though, and I believe they call that a result."

In accordance to his wishes, the cabbie stopped and turned back towards the detective, giving a plain reply, "An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" He finished in a buffered yet pointed manner, continuing towards the driver's side of the car. Meeting no resistance, he slipped into the car to await his passenger's own action.

Outside, Sherlock once again found himself at a crossroad. Should he call Lestrade down and end the case? True, it seemed the only logical thing to do at the moment, yet he found himself unwilling to do so. As much as he'd like to deny it, the cabbie hit bull's-eye on the detective's uncanny thirst for information.

Weighing the options, Sherlock bit his lower lip. The price of ending the case was the murderer's secret, and he wasn't so certain he was willing to pay it. There would pose a substantial risk in uncovering the method, but if successful he'd gain new, potentially valuable information. He retained some confidence in his own abilities to protect himself, especially against an elderly man; the risk only lay in the murder's own technique, which upon revealing would provide the intel he so desired.

Before confirming his decision, he glanced up at the window, a small hope that someone would notice his departure should things turn for the worse coursing through him. He could see John studying the laptop, furiously trying to piece together the facts and silently wished him swift results before approaching the cab on the opposite side.

Bending over to peer inside, he questioned, "If I _wanted_ to understand… What would I do?"

The cabbie turned to look at him, "Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too?"

"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. 'olmes," the man sighed almost exasperatedly before recovering his typical eerily calm tone, "I'm gonna talk to you ... and then you're gonna kill yourself."

As he turned to face the dash once more, Sherlock gave one last consideration of his options. Ideally by now his absence would've caused some disturbance in the flat, enough so that someone might peer out the window below to see his escape. Counting on that to reassure any and all doubts about the risk, he straightened up. Taking a breath, he reached for the door handle and opened it – observing with a frown at the driver's own smirk of victory. Yet just before he could enter the cab, a voice called out.

"Stop!"

Both men turned their attention towards the outburst that effectively halted the detective from entering the vehicle. While the cabbie's expression merely showcased curiosity, Sherlock's betrayed the slightest trace of exasperation. The figure skidding up to the two revealed itself to be the American from before, an unpleasant arrival to the current situation.

Her auburn hair sprawled in all directions, evidencing the sprint she took to return to Baker Street. But why? What business did she have here? Surely she couldn't have pieced the puzzle together before him, yet why else would she come back?

"Don't get in to that cab Sherly! That guy's the murderer," she gasped, barring herself in between him and the door, adding among efforts to reclaim her breath, "And _please_ don't tell me you were stupid enough to take a pill."

"You again?" he observed unhappily.

"Yes me," she scoffed, "Now back off and get the police. I assume they're in your flat right?"

"And leave you here, alone, with the murderer?" he feigned concern, hoping it would deter her from ruining his opportunity to gain the cabbie's secret, "I'm afraid I can't do that, it would destroy all your hard work trying to instill chivalrous qualities in me."

She snorted, "Yeah, like you honestly care about that. Just hurry up and go already. I'm more than capable of handling him on my own, thank you very much."

The two stubbornly stayed where they were, glaring at the other's unwavering will. Sure, he could easily push her aside since her exhaustion served a handicap against her, but the effort would almost certainly alert those in the flat above. His only chance stood at convincing her to go up herself or let him go – both, unfortunately, not probable.

"Ah, nice to see ya again Miss," the cabbie spoke up from where he watched the pair.

The woman stiffened slightly, unable to hide it before Sherlock noticed as she glared at the driver. He frowned at the new information. They had met before? When? Where? And why didn't he kill her when he had the opportunity? The logical reason rested in that she hadn't accepted his specific cab for a lift, likely taking one of Mycroft's own cars on her excursions. Still, it failed to rationalize her sickened reaction to the cabbie's words.

Suddenly it dawned on him. She was the last to see Jennifer Wilson, practically escorting her to her death. It explained the mentions of vague recollections she held of the bag that night as well as her own guilt driven nausea at the confirmation of such actions and their repercussions. Both were present at the train platform - having arrived from differing destinations and awaiting final transportation. It all fit neatly together, so much so that he berated himself from overlooking the fact hours ago.

"You were the last to set eyes on Jennifer Wilson," he accused, gaining her attention once more.

"The woman from the station? Correct, she hailed me for her," the cabbie confirmed.

Her shock, however, was short-lived as she angrily snapped, "Shut up! You're not helping the matter," turning back to the driver, "And you keep out of this! It's bad enough I have to teach this lunatic about stranger danger, I don't need your commentary. Please, I have half a mind to knock both of you out this instant; _don't_ tempt me."

Sherlock huffed in amusement, "Quite a formidable task you've got planned. And how, might I add, do you plan to carry out such a feat?"

Before he had the time to react, she swiftly turned and snatched the end of his scarf, tugging on it so that he was forced down on her level. From there, he stared dumbfounded into her fiery eyes as she snarled, "Simple, I'll hold both of your leashes and drag you upstairs myself. Have anything to say about that? No? Good. And by the way, if you're going to play the part of an arrogant vigilante, then you might want to reconsider how you wrap your scarf. The way it is now just begs someone to strangle you," she punctuated, pulling momentarily on the item and causing his breath to hitch consequentially in the process.

Mercifully, she slackened her grip and he was able to straighten up slightly. While her glare continued, almost daring him to try something, his own gaze became more wary of a potential follow-up attack as he loosened the hold the accessory had on his neck. It should've been obvious from her acquaintance with Mycroft that she received at least some basic self-defense, yet he betted on her weariness to dull the edge. Obviously he miscalculated her ability.

"Now," she began in strained control, "Shall we do this civilly or not? Your choice."

Sherlock scowled, knowing that his one chance to get the solution to the mystery was dashed by the irksome American. The only pleasure he derived from the situation was that she'd likely never set foot in this part of London after the case closed – even more so should he alert their meeting to his brother. Perhaps he should phone him as they returned upstairs to rid himself of her company more swiftly.

Grudgingly taking a step back onto the curb, Sherlock watched as a flash of relief coursed through her as she smirked, "Good choice."

"Quite amazing," the cabbie added, and the two bit back a moan for differing, yet similar reasons.

"Yeah, yeah. He can actually think for a change, very surprising," she rolled her eyes, not bothering to give the man her attention.

"I wasn't talking about that," he said and her gaze distorted in confusion as he continued, "Do a lot of drugs miss?"

"What kind of question is that?" she huffed, turning to give him an incredulous look while slightly jumping at his changed seating place.

"I ask cause you're _very_ resilient," he clarified, causing both the woman and Sherlock to narrow their eyes at him questioningly. "Most people would've passed out by now."

Simultaneously, they both came to the same realization as she spun around to face him fully. Her arm reached for her left shoulder, barely touching the needle imbedded there. Hastily, Sherlock took the syringe out moments before she lost her footing, forcing him to catch her.

"What the hell did you give me?!" she struggled to demand, her breath noticeably thinning in pace with her increased perspiration.

"Just a little gift my employer gave me should I meet any hitches in my work. Don't worry, it won't kill you. Just knock you out for a couple a minutes," the cabbie shrugged, quickly adding, "Now Mr. 'olmes, if you want to know what I said, you better make your choice now before anyone upstairs notices the miss' condition."

That certainly got his interest: a way back on course. However, an added risk presented itself at that moment, or more precisely in his arms. The American growled, fiercely staring at the driver with an almost murderous intent that was only held back by the spreading effects of the sedative. Sherlock realized that if he were to go, she must accompany them. If he left her there on the side of the street, someone would undoubtedly take notice - potentially risking his last chance. Sure, he'd have an extra life in his hands, but his confidence hadn't altered in the slightest.

"Don't you _dare_," she warned darkly as if reading his intentions.

"No need to worry," he simply replied, gathering her in his arms, "You're in the most adept hands in all of England."

He entered the cab, resting her on the seat beside him, catching her grumble, "Oh yes, that makes everything better; to hear that my deranged fan holds my life in his hands. Somebody just kill me now."

Ignoring her, he closed the door to allow the cabbie to start-up the engine and go. As they traveled, Sherlock kept one eye on the woman, carefully noting her condition as the drug progressed through her body. Her own eyes shut in an effort to fight it off along with her body that desperately tried to sweat the chemical out. Other than her paler complexion, she appeared alright for the moment, only stirring when the obnoxious ring of a phone sounded in the car.

Glancing up at the cabbie in the rearview, the detective observed the quaint surroundings, gathering all the information he could to gain even the slightest advantage in the fight. Meanwhile, Wendy struggled to stay conscious.

Her whole body felt weighed down and nastily damp, prompting a desire for a bath or shower. Instead she angrily cursed at the man's idiocy to accept the absurd proposal. Just couldn't let things go to the police could he? Worst of all, she scowled at her own blunder in keeping her back to the real danger. Should she ever survive the ordeal her trainers would strangle her for sure. Again, _if_ she made it out alive.

Another rush of heat and stars coursed through her, and for a moment she lost her vision. Grunting in the effort to stay awake, she clenched her hand and jaw. Faintly, she made out the sounds of Sherly and the cabbie talking, but their voices were steadily growing more distant. She didn't have much time left, so she put all her strength into one last move.

Forcing her body into motion, she grabbed Holmes's coat and swung his attention towards her. The cabbie gave a surprised look from the rear view, likely calling her defeat by now. Well he wasn't too far off – her strained breathing proved that.

Instead of indulging the murderer, Wendy pulled her eyes open to mere slits, growling, "Whatever you do, don't give into his temptations. Buy as much time as you can possibly manage, and for the love of God… Don't screw up!"

With her last ounce of energy spent, Wendy released her grip and slumped down into his lap; taking one last breath before the darkness engulfed her.

* * *

><p>An update and new story in one week?! It's a miracle! Well, this marks pretty much the end to the 'Study in Pink' section of my 'Pilot' episode.<br>I hope you all like~

Review or favorite if you like or have any questions/comments c;


	9. Pilot - A Study in Pink

Chapter 9

Soft light greeted my battering eyes, kindly encouraging me back to the land of the waking. Once fully open, I resisted the urge to comply with the norm to stretch and thus forfeit the heavenly essence of the bed. It was like floating on a cloud, and I wanted nothing more than to drift away a bit longer. Shame the memories caught up at that moment.

"Oh my gosh!" My adrenaline surged, propelling me out of the trance and room. In sync with my racing pace, my mind scanned the possible scenarios - none resulting in a favorable outcome.

"That idiot! Who buys the word of a sketchy murderer? Ooh, you better be alive or I'll kill you!" I verbalized my anxious thoughts.

I already had one victim's blood on my hands, and really didn't want to add my host's brother of all people to the stain. Despite the ire I possessed, my mind processed the words in the contrasting way of: please don't be dead, please don't be dead, please don't be dead.

"Commence every morning with an absurd oxymoron?"

I performed a cartoony foot shuffle back, grasping the wall for an extra support. "Mycroft! I- Your brother- Trouble-" I fumbled, going nowhere fast. "Ugh! Come on!" Finally pushing myself into action, I snatched his hand to put momentum into this rescue if we even stood a chance at saving the suicidal brother. In my haste to speed away, I overlooked his parking brake and nearly toppled over from the sudden stop.

"Your concern goes unwarranted Ms. Verarity. I assure you my brother resides far from disaster, for the present moment," he informed calmly.

"Huh?"

"Rather than piddle the day away on frivolous notions, I suggest taking proactive action towards your upcoming soirée. Your father informed me that you lack proper habiliments and requested assistance on your behalf. Considering the day's agenda-"

"Hold on a second!" I interrupted roughly, "What do you mean he's okay? Last I checked he stood on the edge of some manic bet with that creepy cabbie."

"Plainly he emerged victorious. Now focus; you have an imperative gathering to organize and attend in a preferably proper manner," he asserted, keen on diverging to the more urgent topic.

But I was far from letting it settle to a mere 'all is well.' Heck, after what the younger Holmes put me through, I deserved more than what Mycroft gave – even though I suppose some blame falls on me, little though it may be. My lack of motion upon his prompt effectively halted my host, and for a moment I considered backing down out of guilt since my behavior showcased less than proper considering my place as a guest, but ultimately my resolve withstood any opposing force.

Looking him straight in the eyes, I calmly averred, "I understand the importance of my duties, but right now the status of your brother concerns me most. Forgive me for saying your word isn't enough to reassure those feelings Mycroft; I need to see him with my own eyes. Only then can I muster the attention needed to begin preparing for the gathering."

"By all means," he consented, much to my surprise, "A scattered head proves most unproductive in any matter. But before you scamper out, perhaps your memory may save you the energy."

"Memory?"

"Why of course," he waved the question away like a parent would a silly, childish notion, "You were conscious at the adjournment of the case; albeit semi-coherent, though nevertheless holding the capacity to assess my brother's condition at the very least."

I frowned, furrowing my brows in concentration. As far as I was aware, the recollection didn't exist – shoved into the same class as all the dreams I failed to recall upon awakening. Observing the difficultly of my task, Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh and reached over to where my coat hug neatly on a hanger. Carefully removing it, he held it up to my face, earning a queer glance from me.

"The olfactory sense ties into the functions of the hippocampus most effectively. A simple sniff of the scents clinging to your jacket last night can prompt a swifter return of your memories," he explained.

"Smart," I nodded; slightly impressed though retaining enough pride to not fully show it physically as I buried my face into the soft fabric. Instantly waves of musky odors and stale car hit my nose, causing it to scrunch up slightly from the unexpected aroma. I don't know what I expected to smell – roses maybe? – but it sure wasn't what I got, though in all honesty it wasn't as bad as I made it out to be. In other regards, it adequately did the job:

_Wendy shifted stiffly, a heavy weight attempting to keep her in the depths of unconsciousness giving way to a voice hazily reaching her ears, "Ms. Verarity? Can you hear me? Ms. Vera-"_

_"Just Wendy please," she groaned, opening her eyes and blinking to clear the sight of a man in a suit leaning over her. Just above his salt and pepper sprinkled black hair, she could faintly make out the stars in the thick city smog - the view partially depressing her as she compared it to the clarity of the cosmos back in her hometown._

_Nevertheless, she painstakingly sat upright; hand coming to her pounding forehead. A wave of nausea rushed over her as she fought to keep cool and somehow subdue the migraine assaulting her head. When the man stepped forwards to assist, she held out her other hand, "No, no. I'm fine. Just-Just give me a moment."_

_Hesitantly abiding, he gave her room to steadily swing her legs out the door and shakily stand. At the instability of her legs that shook like branches in the wind, Wendy chagrined as the man swiftly supported her, throwing her arm over his shoulder. She surely was beginning to lose her touch; hopefully it was merely a side effect of jet lag and not her own abilities decaying._

_"I've got you," he reassured for moral support more so than physical relief since Wendy didn't doubt he could easily carry her weight if need be._

_Smiling warmly she nodded, "Yeah, thanks."_

_The dyad slowly made their way through the flashing lights and array of authorities skirting around to collect any and all evidence they could. Where were they? By the looks of the buildings Wendy presumed some school, but why on earth would the cabbie choose that site? Sure it offered the promise of not being interrupted, yet it was a school, and like any other, creepy when devoid of any and all students. Even so, she temporarily entertained the desire of not returning to the place upon commencing her studies for fear that the events of that night would somehow forever mar the place in her memory._

_Regardless, she let the thought drift away in tow with the buildings; and while her focus truly needed to stay on keeping her legs from caving under her suddenly unbearable weight, Wendy found her senses gradually numbing in shock at all that surrounded her. They were in the heart of a full-scale crime scene - and the presence of the paramedics failed to offer any reassuring hope._

_Eyes desperately flickering to and fro, she scanned the area for the familiar face of the other passenger. The beginnings of tears stung at her, but she stubbornly kept them at bay. He had to be alive, he just had to. If he wasn't then... Then she'd-_

_"What are you doing here?" _

_Snapping her head up in the direction of the voice, Wendy's legs slackened minutely in beat with her pulse. Just a few meters away was the man whom she had searched for. Despite lingering ill feelings towards him, she couldn't bite down the overwhelming relief that flooded her soul. He was alright…_

_Shame she couldn't say the same for herself. Right beside Sherly stood the elder Holmes, too engaged in conversation at the moment to notice her approach. At the sight of him, Wendy felt a pulse of dread go through her. So much for keeping the situation on the lay low – although knowing Mycroft, such hopes were a bit much to ask for. Nonetheless, she pushed away any lingering moans of future scolding from her host and let the moment take center stage. Perhaps even making note of it in her memory to look back on as something worthwhile; a piece of evidence that happy endings do in fact result in some situations._

_The touching moment, however, didn't pursue much longer as she once more tuned into the conversation as Mycroft growled, "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ..." trailing off to give a demeaning tilt of his head for effect, "and you know how it always upset Mummy."_

_"_I_ upset her? Me?" Sherly replied in a level tone, yet his anger clearly showcased in his features as he retorted, "It wasn't _me_ that upset her Mycroft."_

_While the younger glared at the elder, who gave an exasperated sigh of his own, Wendy felt all traces of peace and content drain from her. Well that lasted long, but then what did she expect from a pair of brothers? One went out of his way to avoid the other who painstakingly transcended beyond the realm of overprotective sibling. Suppressing a snigger at the totally unsurprising relationship between the two, she shook her head and returned with a rebuking tone._

_"Oh knock it off you two. Can't you go ten minutes without arguing?" she called, earning the huddle's attention as she stopped between Mycroft and the third man, likely Sherly's companion, "I've been through enough tonight as things stand and would rather not witness anymore drama than need be. So if you're intending to bicker on, I kindly ask that you do so tomorrow whilst I'm not around, thank you very much."_

_Her annoyance only faltered momentarily at Mycroft's own reprimanding glance, as if warning an upcoming chiding of her recklessness – not to mention the fact she entered into his brother's presence once more. She hardly felt the punishment suited the crime, however, since all she intended to carry out was saving Sherly's life - like she honestly saw herself getting dragged into the mess coming. Please, she wasn't some seer._

_Almost graciously, the companion's question dispersed the tension, "No, no, wait… What? Mummy? Who's Mummy?"_

_All three turned to stare at him in confusion for a bit until Sherly shook it off and clarified, "Mother – _our_ mother. This is my brother, Mycroft."_

_The man stared bewilderedly at Mycroft, shifting his gaze to rest on Wendy in the same manner as he stumbled, "Brother? And you're-"_

_"Whoa there," she held up her hands, "I'm most definitely _not_ a part of their crazy family. Thank goodness for that."_

_He nodded slowly, still taken aback by the whole situation. The brief moment of silence that followed – intended to allow him to get his bearings once more – dually lent Wendy the opportunity to study the man. She felt as if she'd seen him before, but where? She inwardly cursed her failing memory at forgetting such an irritatingly familiar face._

_"I'm sorry, but have we perchance met before?" she asked with narrowed eyes._

_"Yes, you met earlier this evening. Doctor John Watson, my brother's new flat mate," Mycroft answered before the man could himself._

_Now it was his turn to receive the brunt attention of Sherly's irritation and the other two's befuddlement, as Wendy blinked a few times, "Wait, how on earth can you possibly know that?"_

_"Simple, he observed your assembly through one of London's numerous cameras," Sherly explained, Mycroft affirming with an annoyed glance of his own._

_Wendy's mouth dropped slightly open at the revelation, wetting her lower lip before proceeding angrily, "So you were _spying _on me?"_

_Before the man could reply, his brother raised a brow, "You're surprised? Obviously you don't know my brother as well as you'd care to believe."_

_Biting back a retort that she only just met the man that morning, Wendy sat back as John spoke up, "Lighten up, it's not her fault," turning slightly to give her a sympathetic glance, "It's alright. When I first met him I thought he was some sort of criminal mastermind by the bravado of our meeting."_

_She smiled, immediately taking a liking to the man, who shifted embarrassedly underneath the dual Holmes's gazes; Sherly's departing first to give his brother a quick disparaging look up and down before consenting, "Close enough."_

_"For goodness sake," Mycroft huffed, "I occupy a minor position in the British government."_

_"He _is_ the British government," Sherly clarified to his elder's displeasure, "When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis, that is."_

_Wendy shook her head, an action altogether best reserved as she suddenly cast herself into a dizzy spell, forcing the guard at her left to take the brunt of her weight. Immediately catching on to her condition, the men looked towards her as John urgently questioned, "Are you alright?"_

_"Just the aftereffects of the drug used to seduce her, no need to worry," Sherly answered, causing Wendy to grind her teeth in annoyance, but nonetheless permit the explanation to stand._

_"Yes, and I believe it best that I depart now while I'm still consciously able to. Good night John, it was nice to see you again. Hopefully next time we'll meet under better circumstances," she smiled at the named, who nodded respectfully back. Turning towards the Holmes siblings, her expression hardened slightly, "I'd prefer you keep the remaining argument short, seeing as Mycroft is my ride back and all. Certainly you understand."_

_She turned in step with the associate, waving whimsically back at them, "Good night Sherly, try not to go blundering off again lest we have to go and rescue you once more."_

_Smiling slightly at his irked frown, Wendy ducked into the back seat of the vehicle, resting her head on the door after it closed. Letting exhaustion finally triumph, she willingly fell asleep – thankful to put off the confrontation with Mycroft until the following day._

And that time had all too suddenly arrived as I hesitantly raised my face from the coat, giving a sheepish glance at him while trying to act lightheartedly, "Oh, I suppose I did didn't I? Well that solves that! Now onto the day's agenda: scouring about for suitable attire correct? Yes, yes. I'll get dressed right away and then we may leave – or myself and one of your people if you're schedule proves too congested at the present, which is totally understandable," I beamed, all-the-while retreating steadily back to the cover of my lodgings.

I would've made it too had he not blatantly seen through my fragmented attempt to avoid the consequences of last night, "Certainly, but you must be considerably famished. Why not enjoy a light breakfast before your departure?"

Struggling against the urge to moan like a teen caught sneaking a friend inside, I wiped away any guilt that may have presented itself on my face and smiled back at him, "That would be lovely."

…

"It was terrible! I've never been so embarrassed in all my life!" I moaned through the curtains of the dressing room while adjusting the straps of the eggplant dress on my shoulders.

"Well, you did go against his wishes and broke your own word," her escort, Michael responded, "Obviously he's going to be at least a bit upset about it."

"Yeah, but it wasn't my fault," I defended, "I was only trying to protect that idiot brother of his, who, might I remind, was the one who dragged me into the cab in the first place," I finished, stepping out to twist around in the mirror outside.

"I'm sure Mr. Holmes understands that some aspects were unavoidable, just give him some time and try not to prick his attention for a bit," Michael advised, adding more lightly, "Fancy this one?"

"Meh," I frowned, shifting left and right, "It's better than the last one but still lacks something. Put it on the chair, please. Just in case it's the only semi-suitable find."

"Of course," he smiled as I returned behind the curtains to shed the attire while he rummaged around a bit for the next. "How about giving this one a shot?"

I turned, exchanging the purple dress with the white gilded fringed one offered, observing it in my outstretched hands before approving and beginning to wriggle into it, "But seriously, I didn't think it was that bad."

"You were thrust into the middle of a murder case! You could have been killed – not the best end to the first day of your arrival in London," I could practically feel him frown, "Understand that had anything gone awry, the blame would fall not only on Mr. Holmes but-"

"But the entire United Kingdom," I finished wearily, "I know, I know. Mycroft's made it a priority to drill that particular bit of knowledge in my brain. But it doesn't excuse the overbearing punishment; I mean he's practically put me under house arrest!"

"Please, you're out now aren't you?" he chuckled as I rolled my eyes and stepped out muttering bitterly.

"Yeah, with a babysitter; not exactly off the leash."

"What do you expect-" he trailed off abruptly, prompting me to turn and give him a perturbed glance.

"What?" I folded my arms at his continued silence.

"Oh, nothing! Just," he swallowed and revived his bright smile, "You look lovely."

The remark genuinely caught me off guard, and I had to swiftly turn away to hide the rising heat forming on my cheeks. Instead I studied my reflection as if it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world, stuttering, "Y-You think so?"

"Without a doubt; it agrees pleasantly with your eyes – quite a feat considering their odd chromaticity," the voice of the last person I expected to hear chiming in.

I turned swiftly to see Sherly and John standing in the doorway, the later explaining, "We saw you through the glass and thought to check up on you. How are you feeling, uh-"

"Wendy," I stated, gaining back some control, "And much better, thank you."

"Surprising, considering the lecture my brother assuredly gave you this morning," the other cynically remarked, making me glower unpleasantly.

"Nice to see your spunk hasn't waned in the slightest Sherly," I smirked, taking pleasure in his grimace though feeling sorry for the awkward bystanders, "And pish-posh; it pales in comparison to what your holidays likely consisted of."

"Probably true," he grudgingly agreed, recovering his pride soon after, "Although I suspect he put you under substantial observation – considering the presence of your escort here. Such a shame. Perhaps next time you'll make better decisions rather than foolhardily meandering about in matters beyond your ability."

"Oh that's rich, coming from you," I snorted, "Try taking your own advice; you barely got out of that suicidal bet yourself. Frankly, I'm amazed. Must have some guardian angel, huh Sherly? To be consistently pulling you out of the pitfalls you carelessly jump into."

"What makes you think I only emerged with the aid of another?" he narrowed his eyes, but I waved him off, going back behind the curtain.

"How else would you come out alive?" I called, "But never mind that; you can tell me all about it later."

"Later?" he echoed in an amused huff.

"Yes, couldn't you understand? Dear me, I believe your concern is focused on the wrong person Dr. Watson," I grinned, sensing Sherly's annoyance. In a jiff, I emerged fully dressed in comfortable bleached jeans and loose teal blouse, taking in the impressed looks John and Michael gave me while brushing past the boys, "Are you coming or what?"

…

"So he was being paid to murder people in order to provide for his family?" I clarified, swallowing the bite of salad, "I bet they were just overjoyed to hear that dinner came courtesy of some unfortunate person's life."

"Unlikely; he divorced his wife three years ago and hasn't seen his children since," Sherly corrected.

"Sarcasm is a foreign language to you isn't it?" I raised my brows with an unamused expression.

"I'm assuredly familiar with satire and the like – which, might I enlighten, is not a dialect. All cultures utilize it in various forms," he shot back.

"Still proving my point," I muttered, "Though I suppose that's unsurprising coming from the man stupid enough to pick the wrong pill. I'll say it once again: it's by God's grace you're still breathing."

"Religious belief holds no sway over the matter," he argued vehemently for a moment before exhibiting an odd epiphany-like expression. "_Wrong_ pill? You say it as if you are aware of the correct one."

"Well duh," I rolled my eyes, "Shouldn't it be obvious?" His expression morphed into a sullen one, silently yet effectively answering my question. I grinned, "Oh, so you _don't_ know. How quaint."

Loyal to his friend, John spoke up before things could turn any worse, "How can you know which one was the right one? You weren't even there."

"I don't need to be," I shrugged, "All the evidence is in your story."

"Do explain," Sherly egged, keenness for the solution flashing hungrily in his teal gaze.

Looks like someone's desires went unfulfilled. He must possess some major interest in solving every last problem completely to have continued mulling over the answer only to come up empty-handed. I'd kindly save him the grief – at a price, of course. No way would I pass up on the opportunity, especially since it was practically begging to be taken. And lucky me, the tools were all in place to do so.

"Certainly," I smiled mischievously, his face minutely darkening at the fact, "But only if you manage to squeeze a victory out of a simple bet."

He narrowed his eyes, "What do you wager? I presume you do desire something to stake a venture on the matter."

"Of course, I'd be wasting my time otherwise," I stood and approached one of the tables set up by the window of the store for entertainment purposes, "How about a game of chess Mr. Holmes? Best two out of three. You win, I'll tell you which pill was the right one; but if I win you have to perform a favor of my choosing."

I watched as he contemplated the circumstances, silently encouraging him to accept and holding back a squeal of victory as he followed my actions in suit, taking a seat across from me, "I'll accept your gamble, and make this quick to relieve both parties of a painfully drawn out farce."

Just like his brother… I grinned, eager to see how far the younger Holmes' abilities stretched. "Game on."

* * *

><p>Meh, I don't know how to feel about this particular chapter. In my sketch out it included the game but once I realized how long it turned out to be I stood to leave it until the next but now it just feels like some filler chapter... Well, I do hope you guys enjoy regardless of the outcome~<p>

And thank you all for following/favoriting/reviewing! It really boosts my motivation to get out the next chapter quickly  
>( hint hint c; )<p>

If you like or have any comment/question, feel free to review c;


	10. Pilot - Crow's Feather

Chapter 10

"So, got any names?" I asked, attempting to liven up the game a bit from the pressured silence; the added set of eyes making me increasingly uncomfortable. When Sherly gave me a vague look, I clarified, "I mean the cabbie. He's got to have a name or at the very least some title of sorts."

He nodded, finally making his move, "Jeff Hope."

"How ironic," I shook my muffled snort away, remembering the crime Mr. Hope committed, "Although I suppose the name does fit him, in a weird twisted way. He did manage to keep some liveliness after coming to terms with such gruesome news as an aneurysm stuck in his head; would've turned out to be quite the inspiration had he not gone awry."

"Inspiration is subjective, therefore his decisions remain a powerful motivator to anyone with criminal impulses," Sherly rebutted.

"I suppose," I nonchalantly agreed, taking his rook and continuing, "Still, he didn't have to resort to some demented employer whose only source of entertainment is murder," I ground my teeth in anger, "Just thinking about people like that makes my skin crawl."

John's subtle shift registered in my peripheral vision, and I relaxed a bit. I didn't think my emotions were that strong but apparently something struck him enough to invoke a physical reaction.

"An understandable stance to take," Holmes conceded, "Although when driven to such extremes, most will commit any action regardless of the public's moral position to relieve that which pains them."

"Are you defending the murderer?" I raised a brow.

"No. Simply attempting to broaden your own perspective," he explained, "The world isn't composed of just black and white, Ms. Verarity. There are colours, shades, values – all of which convey an endless supply of views on the same event. Most people merely see their surroundings as a constant blur of motion, never capturing the elements that give form to it. If they'd only just _observe_, then the reality would save many a job and grievances, such as your own. Checkmate."

Numbly, I felt my mouth hanging slightly agape. Who knew he could spout some mini poetic exemplum. Nevertheless, I let a smile form on my face, "Nicely done. I didn't expect that from you."

"Certainly; arrogance isn't partial to gender or circumstance," he nodded, resetting the board.

I chuckled, causing his gaze to flicker up at me, "No, no. I wasn't talking about the game – and don't say that I was smart in doing so. Not yet at least," I winked, "What I meant was your little speech. To think that there actually exist people in the world like you."

"Oh? Partial to conformity are we?" he sneered.

I shook my head, dampening his ire, "No, rather I'm partial _against _conformity. All those who view otherwise obviously haven't learned a thing from the past, or present for that matter. And what I said before, I mean that in a sincere manner. It's nice to see people with different takes on the world around us. Kind of makes you look at things in a new way I suppose."

Beaming softly, I made my move, and after a slight pause Sherly continued likewise. The sunlight filtering through the window created the perfect mood: a relaxing afternoon among what could only appear from the outside to be a group of friends enjoying a game of chess. Of course the reality couldn't be any further from the truth, but I let myself believe in the fantasy if only this once.

The second game, like Mycroft's, ended in the same way, with my triumphant, "Checkmate."

John's jaw practically hit the floor at the concrete proof of my victory. Apparently the sight of his reckless friend losing in an intelligence match was a rare occurrence, and based off of the apparent genetic trait of the family, not all that surprising. Both brothers exhibited remarkable strategic skills – enough to fell most professional players without a day's practice. Still, so long as my own trick remained with myself, neither held a chance of beating me.

When my opponent's gaze stuck to the board for the duration of John's shock, I simpered, "You okay there Sherly? Come now, no need to be surprised. Even Mycroft recovered by this point."

"My brother?"

"Know of any other Mycrofts?" I quipped, arranging the board for the final round, "Yeah, he had the same expression as you when I won. Quite a spectacle if you ask me."

"_You_ beat _him_?" he asked, almost disbelievingly.

"Yep, wasn't that hard really. And if you don't start paying attention, I'll reign victorious over both Holmes children," I warned, taking his knight in one smooth move.

He narrowed his eyes, instantly going into game mode, which invigorated me. Hopefully this time around things would get interesting; and they certainly did, much more than the previous tournament – likely credited to Sherly's stubborn refusal to be beaten or somehow excel above his brother. Am I detecting some sibling rivalry action going on?

Anyhow, I must admit he was good – nearly gave me a run for my money. Nearly. In the end, it came down to a simple standoff between his bishop, my knight, and our kings. For a while we nonchalantly danced around the board, egging each other into a trap only to revise later on until at last he was cornered and lost his bishop. From there, only a few moves remained, then my second victory arrived.

"Amazing!" John gasped, "How in the world did you do that?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret," I winked, turning to the sulking opponent, "But I'll say this much: for someone who can't say enough about people's lack of observance of the world around them, you are surprisingly ignorant of your own actions Mr. Holmes. Might want to change that before it becomes somewhat of a hindrance."

He glowered, "Very insightful, perhaps I'll take your offer at a later time when it proves relevant," I rolled my eyes as he continued, "Will that be all or is there another 'favor'?"

"Right, right!" I clapped my hands together in recollection, digging into my bag, "I nearly forgot."

"Lucky me," he muttered sulkily.

Pulling out an envelope, I handed one to John and the other to Sherly. Both flipped over the item in differing degrees of inspection and curiosity. "It's an invitation," I clarified for them, glancing at my phone. Crap, it was nearly one. Unless I wanted to face lecture part duex of disobeying Mycroft, I'd better make haste, "The directions are inside. Wear something suitable, and please don't make a scene in front of my father alright?" I called over my shoulder, walking out with Michael in tow, "Don't be late!"

…

I sighed, setting down my drink on the balcony railing. They were late, and not just a bit late – a full two _hours_ overdue. In that time the mundane, necessary formalities and casual dinner gave way to socializing and dancing for both types of guests. For a while, I tried to forget and lose myself in the moment, yet couldn't seem to manage well and took to gazing out at the lights below instead. I don't know why I expected them to come, after all we just met and Sherly hardly had what could be called a 'good relationship' with me. I suppose I was merely hoping that he'd stay true to his word and not act like a sore loser. A shame really, just when I felt things improved narrowly.

"What's this? A beautiful young woman standing out by herself in the middle of her own party? Must be something wrong with the music or that green punch," I turned to see a man approach me, his green eyes glimmering in humor were further emphasized by his salty tipped cherry brown hair.

"That or there isn't anything worth going back to," I muttered rather sullenly.

It, however, held no effect on his cheer as he wrapped an arm around my shoulder and rocked me twice, "Aww, you don't mean that. No, all you need is some motivation. For instance," I glanced over as he offered his hand, "Why not a dance with your father? Come now, I haven't seen you in years."

I chuckled, "It's barely been two weeks Dad."

"That's two years in Dad time," he grinned; I chuckled, letting him lead us to the dance floor.

Once there, he swayed in total rebellion against the rather upbeat song, bringing forth yet another laugh from me, "You do realize the tempo right?"

"Of course, but isn't this more personal? I like it much better than that jumpy, wild mess your generation calls dancing," he chuckled.

I shook my head but smiled nonetheless, abiding to his wishes, "Where's Mycroft?"

"Off to the side brooding the night away," he gestured with his head towards the named, who fit the description to the T, "He never really enjoyed these gatherings - much rather spend the day in his gentleman's club. I think the only reason he's still here is because of you."

"Me?" I reiterated in disbelief, "Why would you say that?"

He shrugged, "Call it intuition – that or an abating view of his true discomfort. I told him that he really must learn to grow accustomed to such events if he wishes to hold a leadership position – especially in the case of Korean president – but he hasn't listened yet."

"That sounds like him," I smiled, heading towards the subject of our conversation, "We should probably go save him before he bursts."

"Ah, Ms. Verarity," Mycroft greeted, "Has the crisp air successfully rejuvenated your vigor?"

I let a small smile form. He would notice my off-kilter attitude. "As best it could," I acquitted, "Although I was hoping to have seen a few other guests show, but alas, I suppose they won't be making it tonight."

"If you're referring to my brother and Dr. Watson, then you shouldn't be surprised," he plainly said, catching me off-guard, "Yes, I'm aware that you invited them. Unfortunately, my brother despises social events more so than I; thus the likelihood of his arrival was doubtful from the start."

"Well, a girl can hope," I replied lightly.

He gave me a look as if to say such thoughts were naïve and unproductive, but was interrupted as my eyes caught sight of two shapes approaching in the distance. Unable to hide the happiness at the recognition of Sherly and John, I beamed as they approached and gave their greetings.

"So you bought the dress huh?" John commented, "It looks beautiful on you."

"Thank you," I felt my face warm slightly, brushing it off with an introduction to my father, "Well, this is my father. Father, this is Dr. John Watson."

"A pleasure to meet you Mr. Verarity," John greeted humbly, likely having discovered my family's notable role in the world.

"The pleasure is all mine," Father smiled, "And no need for formalities, especially after all you've done for my daughter. Zai works just fine; although if you feel more comfortable using my surname, then please continue to do so."

The doctor nodded, still retaining some stiff form. He'd get over it by the end of the night, hopefully. I proceeded with the other albeit a bit more curtly, "And this, is Mycroft's brother-"

"Sherlock Holmes," he finished, shaking my father's hand, "Pleasure to meet your acquaintance Dr. Verarity."

Sherlock? I gave him an addled look as Father replied kindly, "Oh ho, haven't heard that title in some time. Sure brings back the memories indeed. Nice to finally meet you in person Sherlock; I've heard a bit about you from Mycroft. You've acquired quite the reputation, if I must say. To be honest, I desired to sway you into joining the political field alongside your brother, but just a glance at you tells me any such efforts would be wasted on my part. Your heart clearly lies in the adventures of mystery and discovery, a very appealing world if I do say so myself."

For a moment, Sherlock appeared genuinely impressed that someone as carefree as my father possessed such keen observational skills. But what did he expect? He _was_ one of the most powerful men in the world – that didn't stem from wealth and appearance alone. No, my father earned his way to the top, nurturing his talents and abilities along the way and giving pride to our family.

While John approached my father with perked interest in the revelation of his professional degree, my attention was drawn by the beginning of a slower paced song – likely the last of the night. A part of me wanted nothing more than to join the swaying couples, but without a partner I stayed put. Shame really. I always loved to sway to such melodies yet rarely found myself qualified. Surprisingly though, a partner found me that night.

Before I could register what happened, I found myself looking up at Sherlock who began leading the dance. With slightly more annoyance than I'd have preferred, I questioned, "What are you doing?"

"An extra favor," he easily answered, adding with a sigh, "Don't pretend that you weren't straining to hold yourself back. Your eyes clearly showcased your desire – might want to be more aware of your actions lest they become a hindrance."

I snorted at his reversal of my words, "So, figured out my trick did you?"

"More or less," he shrugged, "Very inventive and resourceful of you; using your opponent's own strategy against them."

My smile faltered as he stepped on my foot, "Great, you're late _and_ a terrible dancer," I sighed as he frowned. Taking hold of his left hand and holding it out, I instructed "Here, let me lead. I'd rather keep my toes intact thank you."

He made no immediate reply, simply adjusting his other hand on my lower back. For a while, we allowed the motions of the song direct our movements, just oscillating slowly to the rhythm until I broke the silence, "So you figured out one thing, how about the other?"

His stare back was all I needed for a response and I exhaled disappointedly, realizing his intentions for showing up, "Of course; a favor in hopes of a return. Really, you could've just asked."

"How do you know which pill was the right one without having been present?" he inquired, straight to the point.

"It's pretty simple actually - I'm surprised you have yet to arrive upon the solution," I responded, "But let me put those thoughts to rest. The pill you chose was the wrong one."

A subtle tremor passed through his arms to me, prior to him asking tensely, "_I_ lost?"

"'fraid so," I shook my head, "But if it's any consolation, the gun was the best option to take - even if it turned out genuine. There was never a 50-50 chance to begin with you see. No matter which pill you selected, you would have lost."

He narrowed his eyes, attempting to process what I just said. I let him do so for a while before continuing, "The same goes for Mr. Hope – no matter the decision of the opponent he'd always win. The only 'move' he makes in his chess game is not moving at all. Why should he when he's got the opposing king checkmated in every possible scenario? Well, all except one."

"And that exception would be?"

"Hypertension," I answered as if it were common knowledge, clarifying at his perplexed expression, "The pills weren't poison – they were _medication_ for his aneurysm. Calcium channel blockers if my presumption is correct. Completely harmless to him but-"

"Deadly to anyone without his symptoms," Sherlock finished, shaking his head, "Oh stupid, stupid… All the evidence was right in front of me this whole time."

"Yeah; doesn't help your 'detective' façade very much either," I smiled as he groaned at the topic, patting his shoulder, "Oh lighten up Sherly; one day you'll get it. As of now, however, your favor has expired along with the song. Thank you for the dance though, it was... nice."

…

By midnight the buzzing bees departed, leaving myself, the Holmes brothers, John, and my father circled together in the echoes of passing waiters and maids polishing the room for another ceremony. I kept my focus on Mycroft simply due to him standing opposite of his jerk sibling, whom I still felt the remains of contempt for using my invitation to further his own personal gain and for arriving purposefully late to avoid any distractions. Talk about ungrateful. Typically such feelings were dead by this time, but his infuriating aura persisted and kept my annoyance going for no particular reason, providing nothing to condole. Why did I invite him again?

"It was a pleasure to meet your acquaintance Ms. Verarity," Mycroft's words broke through my haze, "I happily await our next encounter; until then I wish you well in your studies."

"Thank you, and as do I," I beamed, feeling Sherlock roll his eyes as I gave a polite nod of gratitude, "Thank you for having me."

"Indeed, I'm indebted to you Mycroft," Father patted the named's shoulder, and then taking on a sober mood, "Though I'm afraid payment will have to wait until tomorrow, for we really must be leaving. Wendy needs to get her room prepared and I have that conference to attend," he cast a dejected glance at departing from the lighthearted festivities.

"Of course, you must be considerably busy," John remarked, finally having grown accustomed to addressing such a major world leader with a pinch of familiarity.

"You have no idea," my father grin softened as he shook the doctor's hand, "May we meet again Dr. Watson," he then nodded towards Sherlock, "And you too Mr. Holmes. I hope you both prosper in your own respective fields." The younger Holmes made no comment, only a subtle nod allowing Father to turn and pat Mycroft on the back affably, "See you later Mycroft."

"I highly doubt, per evidence of your schedule which holds no openings for whimsical hiatuses," he replied almost curtly in comparison.

Nevertheless my father chuckled, completely undeterred, "Nice to see your cynicism hasn't waned."

"You're mistaken. I'm merely being realistic," Mycroft responded.

"Of course, how foolish of me," Father acknowledged, shaking the man's hand with a pure smile reserved only for brotherly bonds, "Safe journey my friend."

To my pleasant surprise, Mycroft returned the kindness with a mirrored, yet downsized to his level, expression, "You as well Zai."

Shining with invigorated joy, my father walked to retrieve our coats while instructing, "Time to say your farewells Wendy; though I wouldn't worry too terribly much. You're bound to see them again sometime."

Beginning with John, I warmly took his hand, "Bye John, I wish you well in your work."

"My work? You mean with Sherlock?" He punctuated with a jerk of his head in the named's direction, "Oh no; I plan on getting a proper job, probably in the hospital."

"Well, I hope you succeed and that if you do find a position in the hospital, we don't meet there too terribly often," I smiled.

"True, but don't let me catch you missing an annual checkup," he matched my humor.

"I'll endeavor not to," I chuckled, turning to Mycroft, who held his hand out readily like a good gentleman.

I grinned; after everything we went through, no way I'd settle for a mere shake of the hand. Nope, the next level was the only option, and before he could register my intent I wrapped my arms around him, beaming with a touch of mischievous glint at catching the entire ring off guard, while simultaneously annoying my ex-host. Boy I'd surely miss that.

Grinning at his slightly evident disapproval, I withdrew, patting his shoulder, "See you later Mycroft. Try to relax a bit until then alright?"

"I'll consider your advice," he replied, softening his tone ever so slightly, "Good evening Wendy."

Oh my gosh, he actually said it! With no formalities! It's a miracle I tell you! Praise the Lord and crack open some party poppers and blowouts! Now I'll admit my behavior verged on - well no, _crossed_ the line of maturity, but hey, my night was made and I was happy to leave it there, grabbing my coat from Father in prospects of leaving. However, before such action could come to pass, he coaxingly coughed, beckoning my attention.

"Forgetting something?" He prompted, eyes flickering towards Sherlock's direction.

Oh, right. Him.

Suppressing a sigh, I approached the man and we shook hands, "See you around Sherly."

His eye twitched in annoyance, producing a grin of satisfaction to light my face - which lasted all of two seconds as he rebutted, "Highly improbable; I regret to inform the likelihood of us ever meeting after tonight is slim to none, taking into account your extracting university routine that will occupy most of your time and-"

"Yeah, yeah," I snapped, "It was a hokum genius."

While he stared as if upset of having been the one interrupted for once in his life, I winced under my father's scolding gaze. Yet before anyone could make an attempt to amend, fire back, or explain the Americanized term to John, a maid rushed forwards with a message, "Ms. Verarity, a letter arrived addressed to you."

"Is that so?" I lifted my brows in surprise, taking hold of the item from the kindly woman.

It was a plain envelope and, corresponding to the maid's statement, my name was scribed on the parchment in simple yet elegant cursive. A curious turn over revealed little about the sender, only that they were orderly and well versed in the art of letter making. I almost felt sorry for ruining the top by ripping it open, feeling as if I'd spilt a chocolate smoothie on some light-colored masterpiece. Within the golden interior rested the message, written in the same dignified handwriting as the front.

Unfolding it carefully, I silently read:

_Tick, tock; tick, tock.__  
><em>Bells chime once - one o'clock.<em>  
><em>Guests below huddle together,<em>  
><em>And out pops Crovus' feather.<em>  
><em>They pondered dimly in the night,<em>  
><em>Awaiting a meteor shower of light.<em>  
><em>I say with upmost sincerity,<em>  
><em>Welcome darling Miss Verarity.<em>_

"Who's it from dear?" Father spoke up as I finished the odd rhyme.

"I don't know, there isn't a name or address," I replied as Sherlock plucked it from my grasp, scanning it meticulously. The rude git. But before I could reprimand him for a growing habit of theft, the reverberations of the grand clock resounded, capturing all attention.

"My, my; one already? How time flies," Father blissfully observed in complete conflict to the cold lump forming in my throat.

A barely audible scratching noise followed, directing my attention to the envelope. A small, thin, previously unnoticed object detached itself from within, delicately landing on the pristine floor. The dark color appeared like a stain, starkly contrasting with the delicate cream hue but without the mess. Following in suit of my stomach, I crouched to almost hesitantly retrieve the item, twirling it to produce a light, cobalt glistening breath.

It was a feather; black as the ocean's depths yet sleek like silk. Despite all instincts and desires to deny its presence, the fact that my fingers registered its form in my grasp alongside the confirmation of my eyes told otherwise. My heart pounded. This had to be some cruel joke or freaky coincidence - either way Wendy is _not_ amused.

"How peculiar," Father commented as I resumed a standing position. To the right, Sherlock stared at the plume with a ferocious intensity as he continued, "I've certainly never come across such a unique signature in all my experience. A raven's feather isn't it?"

By now the letter had circulated to John and Mycroft, who peered over the shorter man's shoulder to read it in a manner that didn't fully reveal his interest in the object. Honestly, if it hadn't been so sketch, I'd have whacked each and every one of their heads for their blatant disregard of privacy - Sherlock three times for rudely snatching and, well, because I was still cross with him.

Especially when he used that higher-than-thou, show-off tone that appeasingly mellowed down slightly under the situation as he corrected, "No; a raven's feather is broader and more acicular. This," he brushed a finger down the item, creating a jumbled ripple, "unmistakably belongs to a different yet similar species commonly mistaken for the aforementioned by casual ornithologists. It is a crow's."

"Right, right," Father nodded, seemingly not catching the rising tension as he leaned towards Mycroft, "You really weren't kidding in your description of your brother, he's practically a mini, er, _taller_ you."

Any comment his friend might have made was subdued by a concerned expression taking hold of his features. He must've just reached the end of the nerve wrecking poem, and the prophetic successions only added to the weight. All that remained was the "meteor shower of light."

But what the did that mean? Was it another literal warning? If so, then the composer must be some idiot who's never experienced city smog. We couldn't spot a plane, let alone some cosmic event with an ambiguous meaning outside. However, it could deviate from the pattern so as to revel in catching us unaware. A trap fitting of the growing ominous tone of its contents and my regrets for rashly opening it - though, I'd rather it now among witnesses than by myself in some dark room. But I'm getting off topic, back to possibilities.

A glance around showcased both Holmes brothers attempting to reach the same conclusion. Under different pretexts it would seem they were fiercely locked in a competition to up the other. Actually quite humorous really; I'd have laughed had the circumstance not held the potential of a bomb in the place. The only one with an air of blissful ignorance was Father - a fleeting blessing upon John letting him read the note at last.

At the efficiency of the revelations, the finale couldn't be too far off so catching it before it duped us quickly became prime objective number one. Receding into my thoughts, I took a small breath to shoo away the anxious dust mites and impending papers. Once clear I proceeded as usual, taking the message in my own ideal way and possibly the intended manner as well.

Meteor shower of light. An awing event where the earth passes through a meteoroid field, and colourful, radiant illumination. The connection rested in both holding the capacity to shed visibility on an area at varying levels, yet what of altercations? What fit both reasonably enough to make sense, and was at least common enough so as to be present in the room? I glanced around, scanning for possible culprits when I passed over Sherlock.

His striking blue gaze was trained steadily on me, catching me off guard. Had I done something wrong? Was there something on my face? Did I appear off to him? I narrowed my eyes. Was this a prank set up by him? Such an occurrence wouldn't surprise me since his audacity already accustomed itself to me. Yet Mycroft's mirroring of his view shoved that thought away, causing me to reconsider the object of their fascination.

Perhaps it could be behind - using the age-old speech trick of staring at the wall in the back of the crowd to keep steady nerves and appearances. Following in suit, I shifted my sights left and right. There wasn't anything, nothing that fit all the facts. But why were both of them staring dumbstruck as if on the verge of epiphany? It didn't make sense - not until I glanced up in irritation that is.

A glint of blinding light caused my eye to narrow painfully until it passed, revealing the masterpiece hanging above. The millions of intricate glass work truly called forth wonder from its audience and acted a beautiful fit in the extravagant room. Sadly, the place it held over all eyes lessened its fans and admirers to the select few who took the time to glance up. Such was the fate of the chandelier.

Wait... Chandelier! The thoughts clicked that moment and I shared in the brothers' revelation, slowly coming to understand the implications of the meteor shower my kindly writer told of. Unfortunately, my legs failed to work at the worst possible moment. An abrupt clunk barely audible to the ear shot through the space followed by the surreal descent of the massive artwork after an impossible instant of suspension.

Beside me, John finally caught on and tensed at the event, ready for action. That's more than I could say for myself. I simply couldn't believe what I was seeing, thus unable to propel myself to safety. Was this an assassination attempt? It sure seemed like it, and contrary to popular belief, in all my years in the spotlight I've never experienced such occurrences - courtesy of well-trained body guards and an OCD father I suppose. True, I always assumed the day risked coming eventually given my rising reputation, but never did my imagination play it out this way. No; I envisioned it like most, with me doing a super cool Matrix move away just in time to save my skin. Now, however, reality stood some sick prank, keeping me frozen in fear.

Luckily, the effect only applied to two persons in the room. From the corner of my eye, I saw both Mycroft and John grab one of my father's shoulders and retreat away from the object's downpour, giving him the momentum to finally shout my name through pounding globs of invisible cotton in my ears. All three cast varying levels of anxiety back at my lack of movement, even Mycroft betraying genuine alarm and annoyance at my stunned stay below the chaos. Yet no matter how much I'd have liked to obey his silent demand for once in my life, I simply couldn't manage it as fate would so maliciously have it. Instead, my eyes remained trained on the glass of the chandelier until I could faintly make out dozens of tiny mes looking back with the same terror in their amber depths.

Suddenly the wind was knocked from me, replaced with scruffy fabric too thick to allow easy breathing. An arm wrapped around my back with its companion cradling my head to the owner's chest as I numbly let gravity to pull us down and out of range of the crash, which screamed through the room seconds before we hit the ground - giving enough time for a stray shard to slice my cheek. The roar following finally snapped me out of my stupor along with the pain of the cut and my back as we slid a good five feet back. Through it all, my rescuer kept a firm grip on me, acting as a shield from the dwindling shrapnel raining down; only letting up a few seconds after things steadied out.

My eyes blinked up at Sherlock as he painfully stared back at me, asking in a hoarse voice, "Are you alright?"

I groaned, closing my eyes. Why'd it have to be him? "Feel like I've been hit by a bus. Next time you take the bottom."

"And leave you to receive multiple other wounds from shrapnel? That is hardly an action any liberator would select," he smirked, stiffly sitting up and offering a hand to help me do the same.

Rather than prolong the discomfort and attempt adding a social level to it, I accepted while my back wailed in protest. After the static pain fizzled away, the fragmented remains revealed themselves to us. All around, particles of blueish white hung in the air, creating an eerily beautiful atmosphere - just don't breathe too much in. The 'meteor of light' lay in shambles, yet some of the intricate details remained remarkably intact. For a moment, I allowed my body the benefit to catch up with reality, and stared in the present.

When it all caught up, I stiffened and instantly regretted the action as my voice faltered, "Dad?!"

The initial lack of response twisted my heart, yet a shuffling beyond the chandelier wreckage alerted us to a small gap through which the other three could be seen on their bums staring back at us in graduating levels of shock, "Wendy? Thank the Lord. Are you okay?"

Relief sapped all the strength I had left, pushing me to rest my head on Sherlock's chest and wipe a stray tear of joy from my eye. "Yeah," I breathed, "I'm fine."

...

The protocol that followed efficiently processed the situation, beginning with paramedics patching us up and ending much like how the event did - except for the added bandages and scurrying police replacing maids and waiters. The stark orange shock blanket, although a bit itchy, welcomely warmed my chilly shoulders and was held in place with one hand while the other gingerly passed over the rectangle Band-Aid on my cheek - an action solely purposed in affirming over and over again that this was in fact reality. For all that had happened, things were surprisingly calm, likely due to everyone keeping to their own little worlds.

Sherlock, who angrily bickered the entire time he was inspected, nearly getting sedated by the poor nurse, sat across - next to John. His eyes fixated on some unseen sight above his tented hands. By his plain expression, I couldn't tell if he was in shock or in the midst of some intense problem; trying to find the answer. His companion, in contrast, couldn't keep his gaze steady on any one thing for too long at first - flickering to and fro, still stuck in battle mode I suppose. But after winding down, he vacantly watched the mass of people coming and going with an occasional yawn.

As for the other two, they took up the role of witnesses so that we could rest, and probably not mess anything up in Mycroft's case. The head official, Inspector Lestrade I believe, approached each of us afterwards, giving a short comforting talk to me while extending it when passing onto John and Sherlock. He seemed nice enough, yet the familiarity shared with the boys made me wonder as to the cause, no solution coming up in a particularly good light. Still, that was for another time; all I wanted to do was go to the dorm and sleep. Even if things weren't fully set up, I didn't care - at this point I'd take a concrete floor.

"How're you holding up?" Father plopped down on the cushion beside me.

"Good. Sleepy," I murmured, laying my head on his shoulder, "Are we gonna leave soon?"

"We will, don't worry. Just need to clean up a bit more," he lovingly rubbed my back.

I chuckled, "I hope you don't mean the tower of glass over there. Forget orientation, we won't make it out of here for another week."

"Yeah, we'd both have to consider getting an upgrade on our health insurances too. With all those broken mirrors, we've pretty much got one foot in the grave each," he lightly chortled and I joined in, glad for his never-failing ability to make me smile regardless the situation. Maybe that was how he managed to hold his position for so long, winning unanimous reelections since he first took up the role of United Nation's Secretary-General.

However, a brief moment's hesitation caught me off guard, implanting a worrisome question in my skull, "Is there something wrong?"

"No, no. It's just..." He trailed off and then squeezed my shoulder, "How about we wait until tomorrow? You've been through enough today as it is and must be exhausted."

I frowned; definitely not good if he resorted to playing the 'hold off until the next day' card. "I think I'd rather hear it now; get it all over with in one day, you know," I levelly countered.

He stared into my eyes for a minute, contemplating his options before sighing, "Alright, you make a valid point. Wendy," he hardened his gaze, making me shift uncomfortably.

He never used that look unless one of three scenarios took place: 1. The world was on the brink of war and he had to tie things back together; 2. Someone touched on one of the very few topics he vehemently disagreed with, or 3. Someone or myself had brought about harm to me in either a direct or inadvertent manner. Either way, not good. Blissfully, I only encountered it a select number of times, but it failed to take away any foreboding effects from the look.

So my small gulping reaction came commonplace with a slight nervous sweat as he continued, "I'm taking you out of University."

"Wait..." I blinked, still under the look's effects. When the words registered I shook my head while recoiling from his touch and continued with suppressed incredulity, "What?!"

"Don't argue with me Wendy," he warned, "The events of tonight and lack of an apprehended culprit have clarified to me that you're not safe here. Tomorrow morning you'll accompany me to the Woman's Launch in New York. From there we can discuss your options."

The further he went on the farther my mouth hung open, and seizing his break to take a breath I protested, "That's not fair, you know I can take care of myself! Why are you making me back out when you know how important this is to me?"

"I'm doing this for your own good," he argued, trying to keep his tone level to avoid any more bystanders. By this point Sherlock, John, Mycroft and a few others glanced in our direction to see what was happening; our standing positions a clear eye catcher in the vicinity of sitters.

I didn't give a crap. My future was in jeopardy here. Okay, future is a strong word, but it was a piece that meant far too much to passingly give up, "No, you're not. You're doing it for you, so you can keep an eye on me. But Dad, I'm _fine_; I know you don't fully believe that, so just trust me! You know how far I've gone to get to this point, I can't just run away after one crazed person tried to stop me. What would that say about our family? Didn't you once say that a dream's worth is measured by how many walls one breaks through? Well I think we both know that I've smashed far too many walls to back down now. I have to stay, please."

"Wendy..." He trailed off, frowning at my stubborn rebellion.

His chance to rebut my statement failed to arrive as Mycroft spoke up, "If I may suggest," he glanced between us, "Perhaps my service may aid in your dilemma."

My heart thrummed hopefully as my father nodded after considering the proposal. Mycroft's next words literally held the lives of my aspirations. Sure, they were in good hands but a part of me still silently warned him not to mess up lest he warrant some angry backlash. Desperation drove me to accept anything to see my stay secure. Perhaps I shouldn't have let it get that far.

"I acknowledge your concern over your daughter's safety, yet I must side with her in this debate," he continued and I fought back the squeal of excitement, "I know of numerous connections who will be more than happy to vouchsafe their service for Ms. Verarity's protection."

"Alright, what do you suggest?" Father asked, in need of a bit more to agree, "Say I comply - how will I know that this person is protecting Wendy instead of kicking back on the couch watching some soap opera? I expect to receive _some_ background information before allowing such a connection to watch over my daughter."

"Understandable," Mycroft consented, "Which is why the person I considered optimal fits quite pleasantly in this scenario," he paused and I found the surging excitement may have bubble over had it not been for his swift glance in my direction, imparting an unclear message that subdued any overflow, "You are already acquainted with him, so the strain of research stands unnecessary. As for his credentials: he has served two terms in Afghanistan, is well versed in medical procedures, and passes all the psychological and social checks I've given. All that is required is your approval and Dr. Watson's consent."

Through his progression, the mentioned increasingly straightened his back in recognition of similar traits, presently frowning in attempt to process the fact he was under examination without his knowing. Very typical of Mycroft, to opt for such a covert procedure instead of formally asking - though extremely more efficient in his defense, and an additional common characteristic of the Holmes name. But the idea of John acting the part of bodyguard both intrigued and excited me. I never knew of his past, but he definitely filed under 'keepers' in terms of personality; and to top things off, I could stay. Things definitely looked up now; no way could my father brush the offer off without a really good excuse.

I beamed expectantly towards John, who fidgeted slightly under the attention until speaking, "If she doesn't mind the company, I'll be glad to be of assistance sir."

"Not at all!" I quickly answered, spinning back round to Father, "So, can I stay? I'm more than certain of the truth in Mycroft's statement, so there should be no problems right?"

His serious expression lasted a bit longer until a smile cracked through, "Okay, you can stay. But I expect a call at least once a week."

I jumped for joy, hugging him excitedly, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! And don't worry, I'll call twice!"

He chuckled pleased that the debate ended on a good note, turning to John and Mycroft, "I leave my daughter in your hands gentlemen. Should anything happen to her, please be aware that the authority of the United Nations rests solely with me and I will not hesitate to put you on the top of the list of terrorists - though I shouldn't be concerned right?"

Mycroft gave a small smirk as if to disprove his bold warning while John's wide eyes provided more than enough evidence of his shock as his gaze flickered from Father to Mycroft and back several times while the other reassured, "I'm certain such extents need not occur, if they were in fact possible."

Father grinned, "Sure, for the common man. But let's drift from that thought, what about housing?" At my swift agitated look back at him he added firmly, "I agreed to your stay in London, but not alone on campus. If this is to work, there must be a place near Dr. Watson's residence so as to not inconvenience him anymore than we already have."

"Oh no, it's fine, really," John consoled, "I'm sure we can find a suitable place in the vicinity at a reasonable cost."

"No need," Mycroft started, pulling out his notebook. Looks like someone finally found it after two days without that certainly couldn't have been delightful for my host. A pang of shame went through me. After all I did he still looked after me for some insane reason I honestly couldn't say. "It's come to my attention that a flat in the same domicile as yours stands open for rent. 221c Baker Street. It requires substantial refurbishment, but I believe Ms. Verarity will be more than willing to provide the effort demanded of such a task."

"Wendy?" Father inquired.

"Of course! I'll get started right away tomorrow morning!" I quickly agreed, making a move to leave and thus hasten the moment into being.

"Then it's settled," Mycroft closed the book, "You will meet up with Dr. Watson and my brother tomorrow morning to finalize the contract with the landlady."

Sherlock snorted as if in mock humor to his brother's veiled order while John quickly nodded, "Yep, see you then."

I stopped in mid-step, processing the words. Why would Sherlock need to be present? It wasn't as if he lived there- Whipping around I stuttered, "Wait, what?"

* * *

><p>Crow's Feather? Try the never-ending story Sherlock style.<br>Anyhow, hope you all enjoy the extra long chapter :D

Review/favorite if you like or have any questions/comments


	11. Blind Banker - Life Thereafter

Chapter 11

Lavender brushed my nose, gently bringing my eyes open to the dappled light reflected off the particle filled air. As my vision cleared, I took in the sight of mahogany chairs tying into a wonderful sea green colour scheme, accented with white and light blue curtains and sofas thar gave off an aura of a calm meadow. Through a crack in the door, fuzzy peach glowed from the adjacent room, providing contrasting warmth to the atmosphere. If there was one word to describe the place, it would be home.

I smiled, shifting smoothly out of the lush bed and curling my toes on the sleek wood floor – one of the many courtesies provided by Mycroft, installed with the help of Michael and John of course. In fact, most of my current possessions came surprisingly from the elder Holmes, who gave only the straightforward comment that allowing me to use them freed up a lot of previously jammed closets. To be honest, it nearly drove me to tears seeing as the majority of my own belongings were either: a. in America or b. nowhere, leaving me with a grand total of a blanket and a few spare clothes to live off of; or call my Father and let him win.

Yeah, like I'd do that.

Proceeding to the kitchen for a late breakfast, I found myself pleasantly surprised. On the counter rested a plate of biscuits beside a pot of tea, delicately arranged about a dainty cup and a small parchment reading: "There's more if you'll be needing any dear."

Mrs. Hudson; I grinned, pouring myself a cup. Since the not too long ago meeting, I had wholeheartedly fallen in love with the woman. And why not? Between our bond over life in the bipolar weather of Florida and her motherly acts of kindness – including this morning's evidence as well as the first week's night of food when John's attempts of getting me to dine with Sherlock failed miserably because our lingering bile and diverging schedules – there's hardly anything not to like about her. Not to mention the added benefit of an extra person of the same sex to go to when certain topics popped up. Yep, with a landlady like Mrs. Hudson, 221c definitely brightened up.

And a good thing too, because university simply sucks the joy out of most things. Don't get me wrong, I adore the classes. Heck, it was the entire reason driving me far enough into desperation to live in spitting distance of Mycroft's douchey brother. But a warning of projects beginning day one would've been nice to know. I suppose that's just education though, always have to have something to keep the stress levels nice and high. Although it did hold its own perks, particularly in the realm of bringing diverse people together.

Being an assignment regarding the realm of ancient artifacts, I traveled to the only logical place: the National Antiques Museum; of course, not without my faithful shadow that is. As much as I care for John, the first week and a half came close to a living nightmare. He followed me near everywhere - with the exception of the bathroom and my room, albeit on the condition that he slept in the living room until I finally convinced him to rest in his own bed to save both his neck and my sanity. Who knew a guy could follow such strict code? I suppose I have his military background to thank there. Regardless, by the end of it, he agreed to slacken up if only a bit - all credit going to sound reasoning with a touch of singed-nerves bordering homicidal actions.

That and Sherlock's own obscure need for John to accompany him who knows where. Although I'd never admit it to his face, I truly owed the man – for without his fun fact that a scream from a female my age and stature could penetrate three floors, the poor doctor would've found himself strangled come next week. Still, he kept one requirement: that I update him on my whereabouts and always be in the presence of either him or his flat mate; and while sharing Sherlock's disgust of being in the same room for longer than necessary, I took what I could. Of course, I saw to it that such arrangements would loosen preferably by the end of the month at the very latest.

Other than that, my life slid into a pleasant routine – complete with quiet, relaxing weekends to allow for homework and enough free time to ward off any studying or noisy neighbor inducing migraines. And lucky me, one of those precious times came, prompting enough motivation for me to go at attempt numero seis of the artifact report. Procrastination… Rather nasty habit I'd advise many to avoid at all cost, if at all possible that is.

Settling down in my desk positioned in front of a humble view of the alley adorned with Mrs. Hudson's flowers, I traded tea for my laptop, quickly opening up Word while awaiting a moment of inspiration to begin the introduction. Seconds ticked by as I dumbly stared at the screen, still trying to find the perfect words. Sure, a generic start would suffice, but it was the first major project of the year and I wanted to make an impression – especially considering the dual rumors of American laziness and celebrity stupidity that vaguely surrounded me. Perhaps I was being paranoid, but I'd be damned if I let slight inklings escalate any further.

Giving a bout of epiphany, I snapped my fingers, gaining patience's, with a side helping of silence's, reward. No wonder Mycroft liked it so much; it really was a miracle worker. My hands touched the smooth keys of the laptop and began to apply the right pressure to stimulate typing when-

_Boom! Bam! Crash!_

Jumping slightly, my fingers pressed a multitude of keys all at once, producing a jumbled mess of gibberish. The noise gradually faded along with my pounding heartbeat before I glared up at the roof, inwardly cursing my loud neighbors. Couldn't they choose a better time to tear the flat down? Seriously, I had an entire report to finish and my attention span was short enough without the added sound effects. Grudgingly scooting back from my studious state, I stormed up the stairs with a full script of complaints and reliable comebacks already rehearsed by the time the doorway opened.

"Would you-" my introduction ceased, dumbfounded by the unexpected performance playing out in the flat. Sherlock was dodging lethal blows by a stranger that I could only describe resembling some sort of Sikh warrior in an all-out turban and traditional battle dress, fully equipped with a sleek blade. The pair tumbled over each other, far too locked in combat to even notice my presence.

"Uh…" my mouth hung open as I turned in circles and flailed, searching for something to serve a weapon rather than join Sherlock's idiotic strategy to go it barehanded.

An idea came and I raced down to my flat, snatching my choice armament and returning to the room; eyes darting to and fro before a rough thud on the left alerted their position in the kitchen. Whipping around the corner, I spotted Sherlock pinned between the table and the warrior's nasty sword that struggled to slice at its victim but instead settled for the table, leaving a not so subtle scratch.

"Hey!" I yelled, effectively capturing his attention in one second and swinging through to connect the back of my weapon and his head in the next. Instantly he collapsed on the ground, by my – or rather Mrs. Hudson's – handy dandy frying pan.

"Rude," I grumbled, glaring down at the unconscious intruder who had the gall to scar the landlady's fine teak. Glancing over as Sherlock gave me a bemused look, I raised a brow, "What?"

"Quite a swing you got there," he commented, adjusting his ruffled attire in an attempt to regain composure.

"Ten years of softball will do that," I replied, bending down to retrieve the sword lest our warrior pal decided to join us again, "Care to explain why you and Razoullie had a little disagreement?"

His brow furrowed at my pen name, and I sighed, disappointed yet not surprised at his lack of knowledge on the subject of Disney movies while he shook his head and explained, "The Jaria diamond case. Apparently the client did not take refusal kindly."

"Obviously," I breathed, examining the mess - which was disheartening considering the progress made in the past week to maintain tidiness was thrown out the window by the skirmish. Peering at half the cause I sighed, "Well, you can deal with clean up; I need to get back and hopefully finish the report you so impolitely interrupted."

However, my path was blocked as he stepped in the way, holding out his hand expectantly. I put on a hybrid amused-perplexed expression, prompting his clarification, "The sword, if you please."

I snorted, "No way; and let _you_ keep it Sherly? Not a chance. You'd poke your eye out or something equally absurd before I could even make it halfway downstairs."

"I'm afraid your opinion is invalid in the matter," he narrowed his eyes stubbornly, "As one of your beneficiaries, I must insist upon your relinquishment of the hazardous item per safety protocol."

He took a step forward but stopped suddenly as I raised the sword at him, smirking, "Yeah, that's not gonna happen. Might want to refrain from acting all high and mighty when you don't have the ammo to back it up – and not some cheap legal card thing like that thing you just did. My beneficiary? Please. Try obnoxious neighbor," I called out the last bit, having successfully worked my way around him, and relishing in his sulky look on the way back to my flat.

Once there, I scoured about for a suitable hiding spot for the item, not doubting for a second he'd be snooping around the moment I turned my back. A few minutes later, the task was complete and left me at square one again: staring into the screen of the computer, idealistically expecting the epiphany an 20 minutes ago to resurface that instant. Seconds ticked by until I angrily ruffled my hair, glaring daggers once more through the ceiling. It took ages to come up with that marvelous introduction – an event reserved only once a month at most – and now I lost it.

Too frustrated for another miracle attempt, I put on suitable clothes to wear in public, combing my hair to appear presentable as well. When I finished, I snagged a small backpack to shove a notebook and some papers into, simultaneously grabbing a grey beanie to accompany my jacket, scarf and boots. Sheesh, residents must think I'm crazy to be wearing all this in the end of March. Floridian probs…

A small knock on the corner of the door captured my attention from putting on shoes as John stepped in, "Oh good, you're dressed."

"Were you expecting that I'd charade around my lodgings naked?" I smirked, chuckling at his flushed response, "Kidding. What do you need?"

"Sherlock and I are going to the bank, and if you could come that would be great; you know, so that you're not alone here by yourself," he continued, reclaiming his composure.

I frowned at the thought, but luckily had a very viable excuse, "Sorry, I'd love to tag along, but I need to go to the museum and finish up a project – which is due next week, might I add."

"Wendy…"

"Look," I sighed leading the way out of my flat, "I know you're just trying to keep your word to my father, and I respect that, but don't you think dragging me every which way is just a bit of an overkill?"

"Maybe, but it's for your own good; someone tried to _kill_ you. I wouldn't take that too lightly – especially considering whomever it is hasn't been identified yet. Even Sherlock can't piece together a solid clue," John argued.

I paused, looking mildly surprised at the revelation that Sherlock would actually take the time to figure out something like that when I pushed the whole ordeal to the back-burner. Seemed everyone else held it priority ultra for some reason. I don't know, but at least some light illuminated the basis of Sherlock's paradigm shift that night from outright refusal to sobered acceptance of my rearranged lodgings. Frowning, I subtlety glowered at the fact he was simply using me as bait to capture the guy. Sure, options were limited, but I doubt anyone would enjoy hearing that they're basically some fattened pig on a platter in hopes of luring a murderer into a trap – one set by some amateur detective at that. Yep, way to raise my confidence levels.

"Bottom line is: he's still out there and I won't allow him another shot at you, not while I'm around," I tuned back into John's speech as he determinedly folded his arms, giving me a stern parental look.

"John, that was _three_ _weeks_ ago. Whatever his plan is, I'm obviously not the first item on the to-do list. Anyways, I doubt a simple trip to the museum will put me in harm's way – so relax. I'll keep you updated," I waved my phone in front of him, "If anything should happen, I'm certain Mycroft will see through one of his gagillion cameras and alert you. Besides, I can take care of myself – ask Sherly if you don't believe me," I gestured to the named as he stepped down to join us, glowering at my continued twisting of his name.

"Yes, but-"

"Oh just let her go," Sherlock groaned, sidestepping us to grab his scarf, "She already has her mind set on vacating and will likely follow through when the opportune moment presents itself."

"See? We actually agree for once," I patted the man on the shoulder, putting the beanie on, "Don't worry, I won't be too long. Good luck at the bank!"

Squeezing around Sherlock, I dashed out the door, hearing John call, "Call me when you get there!"

Giving a wave to indicate I heard him, I continued out and down the street towards the Underground, whipping down the stairs in tempo with my excited heart.

...

"Hey Andy! Long time no see," I greeted at the sight of the smaller man, who turned at the beckoning.

Andy Galbraith: the archeological graduate and recent addition to the National Antiques Museum. He was the first to help me in my quest, immediately granting a direction towards Greek pottery in lieu of my major in European culture. And help indeed, the guy was literally a life saver. Okay, exaggerating a teensy bit, but he did effectively spare me days' worth of wandering around the massive place.

"Wendy! Nice to see you. How is the report going?" Andy smiled.

Cringing, I chagrined, "Oh that? It's coming along nicely – I even took time to look at it this morning."

He chuckled, "Oh, I see; you haven't gotten a word typed yet have you?"

"That's not true! My name is on it," I pouted.

"I rest my case," Andy laughed, shaking his head, "Well I suppose I can't blame you there. Back in my days there were a few all-nighters similar to that."

"'Back in your days'? Has hanging around old relics all day torn your sense of time? You're practically my age you dork," I humorously nudged him while walking towards the appraisal room, "How's things with Soo coming along?"

Soo, or more formally, Soo Lin Yao, was one of the kindest souls to ever walk the earth, with an infectious passion for antique tea-kettles from China – giving free samples during late night delirium, unofficially of course. Her preference for few words struck me odd at first, embodying the phrase 'choose your words carefully'; but when she spoke up to correct Andy on his assertion that the pot we were examining was Macedonian rather than Grecian in origin, things began to turn for the good. From then on we became the dynamic trio, practically living in the museum to the point where John stopped tagging along, and transformed his routine into escorts to and from the place instead.

Sure, it took a good chunk of the first week to get Soo comfortable enough to endure our consistent presence and my own habit of shortening people's names, but it was well worth it. In that time, we scoured many exhibits until finally deciding on one fine piece created in the first century and collected a considerable number of facts – more than enough to complete several reports in impeccable timing.

Even though I could have easily left after that week, I stayed behind - not only because of our fledgling bond, but for another particular task: Match making. Yep, one look at Andy's swooning over Soo sealed the deal, and although such a role proved counterproductive in most movies, I figured I'd give it a whirl in reality. Positive thinking, and a desire to repay them, playing a substantial role in that decision of course.

Alright, things weren't exactly storybook material, but progress has been made! The pair finally got over shying away like the crushing kids they were and actually managed looking at the others' face for a good five seconds. Yes, much is to be improved, yet they really began to shine around each other in a very noticeable way that just begged persistence in the matter. Unfortunately, for all that light, it failed to pull through presently.

At the mention of the name, Andy's entire demeanor shifted in not a sunny way. Catching on instantly to the stormy mood, my own expression drained, "Andy?"

"Soo Lin… She hasn't shown up in two days," he sullenly explained.

"Two days?" I reiterated, letting go of a breath unintentionally held, "Jeez Andy, give me a heart attack why don't ya?" He looked over in confusion as I continued with a pat on his shoulder, "Look, she's probably off on some family vacation or something –getting a break from the city air. No need to make it sound as if she's dead."

"But she left without warning; and no one I've talked to has any idea where she went," he argued, anxiety increasing to manifest physically on his features.

"Whoa, calm down; calm down," I cooed, stopping him in place and forcing his gaze to meet mine, "We're not going to do much of anything with your mind chock full of frets."

"We?"

"Yes, we. What, did you think I was going to blow off my favourite little pairing?" I smirked, receiving a pleasant reward in the form of his tension reducing. "Now, talk to me. There must be something that will tell us where Soo went."

...

"I'm back!" I called up the stairs, depositing my coat on the corner on the railing; venturing up when no response echoed. "John? You here?"

Opening the door to the flat, I peered around but found no one. It seemed they were still out on some case John informed me of via text message: a break-in at some bank – not the most unusual of cases, but critical nonetheless. Turning towards the mantle, a multitude of printed photos greeted me, telling that the guys must have returned but went out again.

"I believe the punishment of encroachment includes six months imprisonment alongside a hefty fee. Not the best action in your current position."

I nearly hit the roof, hair rising in shock as I spun around to find Sherlock lazily staring back at me from the couch. The creep; he must've blended in with the help of that blue robe of his.

"Why didn't you tell me you were here?" I huffed, adding teasingly, "Not growing deaf are you?"

"Simple," he responded, ignoring my jab, "You only called for John, and seeing as I am in fact _not_ Dr. Watson, I refrained from replying to save the energy for more imperative matters." I rolled my eyes at his snarkiness resurfacing as he finished, "Odd that you would dwell on such frivolous details when the obvious choice stands in focusing on the larger problem at hand, that is unless you happen to produce £5,000. Not likely from your current unemployment and unwillingness to turn to family for support you so obviously lack in providing independently."

"Oh, and you're just the poster child for family relations," I quipped, "And I've been reliably informed that you're my beneficiary - that is what you said right?"

"The basis of one man's word hardly makes a statement reliable," he argued, "An assertion requires at least four varying witnesses to classify candid, and unfortunately there only appears to be three considering the blood ties involved. Anyhow, I recall your original classification bearing a more rudimentary form, but correct in the sense that we are simply 'neighbours'."

"Whatever," I sighed giving up on the debate in favor of something more interesting, "Care to explain the artwork?"

He paused as if considering letting me in on yet another case, probably weighing whether the added annoyance was worth a moment's relief of silence; so I goaded, "Come on. I'm practically handing you the opportunity to show off and perhaps convince me that you're really some detective. Just take the bait already."

"Your opinion doesn't concern me, regardless of its inaccuracy," he said but rose to stand beside me nonetheless, "A cipher, left for a murdered banker. However, the meaning behind such threat remains to be seen."

"I see..." I nodded, brushing a finger across the photo of the yellow streak marring a beautifully painted portrait.

Tilting my head, I began to believe I'd seen the symbols before. It was in the realm of possibilities – I mean, you see a billion different sights in the span of one hour every day. The only problem was that not all images make it through the five seconds needed to enter short-term memory and strive for a longer life in the hippocampus. To the right, Sherlock turned his eyes ever so slightly, waiting to see if I proved worth his efforts.

Not wishing to match his rudeness in the neighbor department, I spoke, "What about numbers? Like-"

"My, and here I believed you actually possessed an ounce of wit," he snorted, "Numbers? This isn't some child's mystery colouring book. Next time you desire to waste my time, do us both a favor and stay quiet."

Glaring furiously at him for interrupting before I had a chance to explain, I stormed out, snapping, "If you're going to act that way, then fine. Don't come crying to me when you can't figure it out later."

"And why would I do that?" He rolled his eyes.

"Because you're an idiot!" I yelled, exiting the flat and brushing past John on his way up. The poor lad stood like a fish out of water, glancing up and down the stairs before tentatively choosing to ask Sherlock rather than myself. Good choice.

Seething at the man's remark, I paced off the anger, telling myself I had better things to do like helping Andy find Soo Lin. Nevertheless, I vowed from high heaven to hell that no matter what I wouldn't help Sherlock in the case. Not even if my life depended on it.

* * *

><p>Hello! Long time no see eh? Well here's the beginning of Blind Banker! As you can see, I'm keeping up with avoiding summarizing the episodes you already know probably by heart, and will continue to do so unless it proves central to the story.<p>

Review or favourite if you like! C;


	12. BB - Cryptology Pacts

Chapter 12

"She what?!" I exclaimed, prompting a few turning heads and angry hushings. Continuing more quietly, I said, "There must be some mistake. Soo? Retire? She _loved_ her job, besides we're her friends. Don't you think she would've said something before up and leaving?"

"I know; I thought the same, but when the director came in this morning she just said Soo Lin resigned. It just doesn't make any sense. She was in the middle of an important piece of restoration, and loved those pots – they were her passion, you as well as everyone else knew that. So why would she suddenly resign? And without saying anything…" he trailed off dejectedly, struggling to add, "D-Do you think it was because I came off too forcibly with her? That's apparently what the others believe."

"Hush!" I scolded, shoving away both of our hazy beginnings of guilt. Sure, it may have played a factor, but Soo exhibited no signs whatsoever of discomfort – okay, maybe a few, but that only happened at the start when Andy kept fumbling his words. "Look, like I said before, we can't get sidetracked. We have to focus on finding her."

"But what if they're right and she gets the wrong impression? She'll think we're stalking her and file a restraining order for sure," he fretted.

"Stalkers? Where'd that come from?"

"I don't know, just something bad is all I'm trying to get at."

"Well then an intervention on thinking habits is due in your future. Come on, think positive! Soo will understand. We're her friends – stalking simply comes with the territory, especially when she vanishes without even a goodbye. She got herself into it, so she can't get cross with us for helping pull her out," I justified, "Now, have you tried contacting any of her family or friends yet?"

"Y-Yes. Family wise, she came to this country alone and never once mentioned anything in the time I've known her, so I assumed she has none. I've tried a few colleagues and friends, but they're just as in the dark as we are," he conveyed slightly disheartened.

"Hey now, no need for despair," I encouraged, "Sure, they may not have been much help, but at least we know where she isn't. That's a pretty good start in comparison to yesterday."

"I suppose," he replied, voice lightening a bit. Good, the last thing he needed was more rainclouds, cause at this rate things were stormy enough. "I'm going to try her flat this afternoon, to see if she's still there. Do you want to come? I mean, I think it would be best if we both go so that she won't take it the wrong way and-"

"Andy," I smiled, chuckling somewhat at his cute infatuation peeping through the worry, "I'll come; don't worry. But first I have to finish this report. Asian government – just when my resident Asian pops off to nowhere. Remind me to slap her when we see her," I joked, earning a blip of a laugh on the other line, "Call you when I'm on my way."

"Alright, see you then," he concluded, hanging up to leave me in peace.

Luckily for him, the assignment was nearly complete. Amazing what a few hours of consistent work void of any calls, notwithstanding Andy's, could do. Even the journey to West Kensington proved simple – a task made possible by John's rather poor choice in having Sherlock in charge while going for his interview. Of course I left a note on the door, but beyond that I kept my distance. Battle scars and all from the last encounter still a bit raw.

Glancing at the clock across the room, I made the executive decision to procrastinate until a later time. My friend was missing – if that isn't a good enough excuse then I don't know what is. Anyhow, it was for the large part complete, so the professor shouldn't be too harsh on it. Shoving the papers into my bag, I went to check out the final book in case more time presented itself.

"H, i, j, k, l..." I mumbled the jingle of the alphabet inattentively while scanning the shelves, "M!" I aha-ed, recognizing the book from the shelf, "_Politics of Modern East Asia_, by Subrata Mitra. Just what I was looking for."

Happy to have found the desired item without any strenuous effort, I tilted it out of the shelf when the metal board behind caught my eye – a striking flash of yellow that commanded attention from any and all viewers. Had it only been an anonymous vandalism, I'd have simply fumed to the librarian and vouched my own support in apprehending the culprit. But it wasn't. No, I recognized it, especially once freed from obscuring books, and stiffly pulled out my phone.

For just a moment I hesitated, the childish grudge combating with the eerie image in front of me. Wait? Was I seriously weighing a murder with my own agenda? Sheesh, keep this up and I might as well kiss my rep goodbye. Shaking my head and sucking up any pride, I speed dialed the one who introduced a copycat to me not so long ago.

"Sherlock," I spoke in a tense voice, my tight grip serving physical proof, "Remember that symbol you showed me? The cipher?" I pulled out a few extra books, waiting for his biting commentary. When the other line remained silent, I took a deep breath, "Well, I'm pretty sure whoever killed that banker isn't done just yet."

"I agree," the reply echoed, and I turned slightly to see none other than the man and John standing a few feet away, somehow having escaped my notice up until that point, "It appears we've got a killer with numerous loose ends to tie up."

"No kidding," I murmured, giving a wary eye, "How did you-?"

"_International Relations and Personal Management of China_ - checked out at West Kensington Library. The one thing connecting Van Coon and Lukis," Sherlock precisely answered, holding out his phone in pursuit of taking pictures of the new evidence.

"Lukis?"

"Ah, yes," John spoke up, filling in where his friend couldn't be bothered to, "Brian Lukis. He was a freelance journalist; murdered last night in his flat. All the doors were locked - just like Van Coon."

"A killer who can walk through walls, huh?" I murmured. Obviously that couldn't possibly be the case, therefore another facet remained amiss. Perhaps there were two killers – one to chase the victim into the awaiting hands of the partner?

"It appears so," John nodded, "Although Sherlock thinks the killer climbed rather than passed though solid walls."

"Well, that's a possibility," I agreed and he gave a somewhat startled look, probably because I sided with Sherlock or his bold proposition, or both. Honestly it shouldn't have; there's nothing that dictates a murderer can't be agile enough to scale walls. Heck, back in America they practically do it for sport. I suppose such activities weren't as prevalent here in the city.

Still, it was nice to stand on the same side as Sherlock for once – albeit the friction and inevitable cessation upon his comment, "Oh? Do you propose a superior explanation? One better than your former I would hope."

Yep. Moment lost.

"Just because I don't wholeheartedly agree with you doesn't mean I have another theory, so back off," I growled, "But considering your lack of any experience, I suppose such assumptions are to be expected."

He straightened up from taking pictures of the cipher to frown down at me, and thus began take one hundred of our discontented stare contest. Avoiding our hovering static, John replaced the array of books in hopes the air would clear up by the completion of the task. It didn't. We were far too stubborn to back down.

Clearing his throat, the doctor shifted and proposed, "Alright, I suppose we're done here now. Back to Baker Street then…"

His words effectively put the stare down on pause, and Sherlock brushed past me to lead the way but I didn't budge, prompting John once again, "You coming?"

"Nope," I simply replied, "'fraid not."

"Wendy..." he sighed, and I briefly felt sorry for causing him so much trouble with all he's done to help me. Such is the negative externality of being caught in the crossfires of my feud with Sherlock I suppose.

"No," I held my stance firm, "And before you say or think anything, this has nothing to do with him," I nodded towards his flatmate. "I have my own problems to deal with, and would rather not hang around when my help goes unappreciated."

He gave an exhausted look, torn between stepping up and forcing me to come (yeah, I'd like to see him try), or staying behind and leaving Sherlock to venture by himself. It was quite the predicament, and I felt rather guilty for putting him in the situation so I proposed a solution with a slightly disinclined sigh.

"How about this: if I agree to accompany you back to the flat and help with that," I motioned in the direction of the cipher, "than I get all of tomorrow and the rest of today off to look for my friend."

"Friend? Has something happened?" John asked, concern touching his features.

"I'll explain in detail later. Do we have a deal?" I stretched out a hand.

The doctor glanced back at his flatmate for collaboration, but only got an indifferent shrug. Deciding on his own, he took my hand, "Deal."

…

"So much for our deal," I grumbled, having once again been ushered into a cab to visit some accomplice of Sherlock's.

"What do you mean? This is part of the deal," John argued.

"No; I agreed to going back to the flat and figuring out the cipher, not the paint used to make it," I countered, stepping out of the vehicle and into the bustling Trafalgar Square.

"I know; but I'm sure wherever it is we're going has the right tools to break it. Just be patient," John started until Sherlock shook his head.

"No. Unlike the many codes and ciphers the million pound security system, the pin machine you took exception to earlier, and others that the world runs on, this one isn't computer generated. It's an ancient device and therefore modern electronic ciphering methods can't unravel it," Sherlock explained.

"Then where are we headed?" John asked the golden question.

His companion paused for a moment, lengthening his stride unfairly so that he passed in front, "I need some advice."

"What? Sorry?" John preformed a double take while I smirked, ready to make a snappy comment when a gallery poster exhibiting some ancient pottery caught my eye.

Crap. Andy. I totally forgot about our agreement from this morning. Slowing down, I rummaged around my bag, securing my cell to let him know I wasn't just blowing him off. The action caused John and Sherlock to stop and cast curious and querulous looks back respectively.

Dialing up Andy's number, I glanced to recognize their presence before hitting the call button. While waiting for him to pick up, I shooed the men away, willing them to hear that I'd be okay and catch up later. Either it worked or Sherlock was too impatient to care – my money's on the latter but I'd rather believe the former. You know, positive thinking and all to add something new to the mix before the other line clicked on.

"Andy? Hey, sorry about the wait," I apologized, rubbing the back of my head guiltily.

"No worries," he pardoned, "Have you finished your report?"

"That old thing? Nah, I figured I'd give my heart a workout later," I smirked.

He chuckled on the other line, undoubtedly shaking his head, "Why do I even bother?"

"Because you're nice and owe me from last Wednesday," I answered humorously.

"Hey, that wasn't my fault. How was I supposed to know my boss switched the times on me when you had my mobile?" he argued.

"You have a point there," I nodded, "But moving on. Something's come up and I don't think I'll be able to get there any time soon."

"Really? That stinks," Andy sullenly replied before quickly adding, "I-I mean no, it's alright. You've got your own things to deal with. I understand."

"Try getting dragged into it against my will," I muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. I truly am sorry, but I still think visiting her place is a good idea. If I don't show up in the next hour, you should go on ahead of me," I offered.

"You sure?"

"Yep, now don't fret. We'll find her, just you wait."

"I hope so…" he trailed off, not at all giving much reassuring vibes, "See you later Wendy."

With that the other line cut off, leaving me to take a huge breath while combing a hand through my hair. Looks like my plate just got bigger, only revitalizing my efforts to get back on track with my own case. Making my way over to where John and Sherlock disappeared, I steeled my resolve. I held up my half of the bargain and stayed with them for a trip, now to reap the reward… half of which flashed by me.

Sherlock? I gave a quizzical look as the man turned the corner of the alley and was consumed by the light beyond. What on earth? Continuing down, I was met with the sight of John beside two very irritated looking community support officers, one of which was currently berating the doctor, who vainly attempted to state his case.

"Problem officers?" I called out, coming to a stop beside my friend.

"No need to worry miss, just catching a felon in the act," the taller of the two informed.

"Felon? Him?" I gestured to John, "No, no, no. You're obviously mistaken."

"Sorry miss, but the evidence doesn't support your claim," he argued, lifting a bag full of spray paint while nodding towards a rather abstract piece of art.

"I understand it must appear that way, but you have the wrong man," I continue calmly, falling back on years of presentations and debates to a wide variety of audiences, "And if you'd allow me a moment of your time, I can clarify my friend's innocence while possibly aiding in the capture of the real culprit."

The pair gave entertained yet dubious looks, but agreed nonetheless – perhaps more for kicks than taking my word. Either way, I could care less, "First off, look at his hands."

Grabbing one of John's hands, I held it out for them to see, "The problem with spray paint is that it's a vapor before contacting canvas. And on a somewhat windy day as today, residue will inevitably end up on your hands, clothes, everywhere. A perfect recipe for stains. However, as you can see, there are no marks to be found."

The officers glanced at each other, looking almost caught off guard at my logical deduction but not fully convinced, so I went on, "Additionally, carrying around a bag of that weight would undoubtedly leave some creases in the fabric of his jacket. Yet once again, no evidence of such is present."

"Therefore, you've got the wrong man. I've given you enough reason, haven't I?" I returned my attention towards them, ready to hear them give up the cause since they appeared very close to it. Unfortunately, they remained silently beside their accusation, prompting me to sigh, "Fine. You need a bit more? Then take a look at the felony. See those neat lines and minimal drippings? You don't find those on an amateur's work. No, it belongs to someone experienced in the art – someone who has likely crossed paths with you on more than one occasion. Now tell me, have you ever laid eyes on this man?"

The shorter officer gave John a look, "No."

"Then that settles it, unless you want this to become more complicated than it already is," I simply finished.

"Who are you?" the other tilted his head, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Wendy Verarity, a pleasure to meet you," I answered unabashedly, while his partner started.

When the taller one gave him a questioning look, he explained, "She's that girl I've been talking about. The United Nation's one whose party got crashed a while back."

I winced, having assumed such an embarrassment had remained contained as the taller man's eyes widened in recognition, turning back to me, "You're right!"

"Yes, yes," I said unenthusiastically, "Now may we leave? I've got quite an agenda ahead of me and, per my father's order, cannot go anywhere without my escort. So you understand my haste."

"Of course!" the shorter one consented.

Well that wasn't so bad. I smiled, beginning to turn away when he called, "Wait!" Grudgingly I turned to see him with a notepad and pen, "My daughter's a huge fan, could you possibly-"

"Of course," I quickly obliged, taking the items and scribbling down a few words, "Have a nice day."

He gave a gracious wave before showing off the piece to his pal while John and I returned to the street to hail a cab back to Baker Street. While awaiting such ride, he spoke, "Thanks for that back there. You saved me a lot of trouble."

"No problem," I shrugged.

"But seriously, you were amazing. I thought only Sherlock could do something like that," John continued.

"Really now? It's not all that you know," I raised my brows, "Just a few conclusions drawn here and there. Easy peasy. Sherlock just dramatizes it a bit."

He chuckled while we entered the cab where he proceeded to fill me in on what all had occurred, biting at the chance of settling the score with this Raz character. Truth be told, I couldn't blame him. If you're going to commit a felony, have the guts to fess up to it; don't dump it all on another – especially an innocent bystander at that. However, my anger pinpointed more so on the familiar figure than the delinquent. So you can imagine my contempt when we entered the flat to see Sherlock with his face in a book.

"You've been a while," he greeted nonchalantly. The man had the gall to not even recognize us with a glance! Instead he remained uninterested, keeping focus on deciphering the graffiti, and, while I'm glad for his dedication, it did little to calm my fury.

"I can't believe you," I confronted the man incredulously, "Ditching John like that. Have you no affinity towards your own flatmate, who – might I add – saved your life not too long ago?"

"Hmm?" he said, not bothered in the least – leaving me piqued.

My chance to vocalize the resent came short as John's passive anger attempted to ebb mine, "No, no. I'm quite used to it," he told me with a biting undertone directed at the third person in the room, to whom he addressed, "You can tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up anytime."

Not surprisingly, Sherlock ignored our anger, instead commenting, "This symbol – I still can't place it."

"Maybe if you can get over that massive ego of yours, things will clear up enough to discover it," I muttered caustically while turning to leave the flat lest things hit the roof.

However, he snatched my arm along with John, whose attempt to take off his coat was promptly thwarted. "No. I need you to go to the police station; ask about the journalist. All his personal effects will have been impounded. Get a hold of a diary – or something that will tell us his movements," Sherlock ordered, dragging us out and downstairs.

"And why should I do that?" I contended, struggling to combat against his strength that surmounted what one would infer from his build, "In case it has slipped your mind, I only agreed to one tag along for the afternoon, not an entire day's worth of help."

"Oh quit your caviling, you know three sets of eyes trump one. Therefore, it is in your best interest to follow my word as efficiently and quickly as possible," he easily negated, swinging us out into the street before dashing away on his own quest.

Unable to combat his logic, I sullenly backed down and muttered incoherent words of irritation while John hailed a cab – managing the lingering resentment better than myself. It truly was childish of me to continue dwelling on the fact, not to mention wasteful in terms of the hours left of the day. Glancing at my watch, I frowned. It was nearly three. So much for meeting Andy later; hopefully he took the suggestion and visited Soo's flat.

_Click! Click!_ The sound barely registered in my head and likely wouldn't have had I not grown so accustomed that if it were a mile away I'd probably still hear it. Yep, the paranoia of the famed in action. Now as for the source…

A panoramic sweep quickly identified the culprit: some Asian woman donned in all black attire with matching sunglasses. Yeah, cause that isn't sketchy at all; though she could just be another one of those fans. For the past week I've been dodging the trickling pictures and awkward meet-and-greets on the streets as awareness of my presence grew. It annoyed me to a degree (I mean, what's so special about me? I know my dad is a big important figure, but I'm just a normal human being. Yet people looked at me as if I were some monarch's heir or whatnot.) but it came far later than I expected, which helped things along. Just another pleasing difference between my home and current country: privacy was slower to dissolve here than the all-out frontal assault in America.

Anyhow, I let the issue pass – deeming it not worth my time at the moment while simultaneously praying that the press didn't go haywire with it. Sure, some may call it a ridiculous thought, but I'd like to hear them argue against the superfluous titles and articles the media published these days just to grab attention. Even if I rejected the thought, a cab pulled up and obscured the woman from view.

Climbing in the back while John gave the address, I peered out the window to see if she was still there and frowned at her sudden disappearance. Catching this, John questioned, "You alright?"

"Hmm?" I gave him my attention, "Oh, yeah. I'm fine."

"Look, I know I said we could look for your friend after the trip to the gallery an-" he started, wringing his hands apologetically until I cut him off.

"No, it's alright John. Seriously," I gave a small smile, "Despite every fiber of my being wanting nothing more than to slap him, Sherlock has a point. Eight eyes are better than four, and I'm willing to go along with his plan if only for my friend's sake."

He chuckled, "I support that notion all the way, though I applaud your restraint. Hell, _both_ of our restraint. We should get a medal or something."

"Yeah," I joined in, letting the lighthearted atmosphere cover us, "Although knowing Sherlock, he'd just melt them down for one of his insane experiments."

John nodded in agreement as the rest of the ride continued with such small talk that adequately calmed our nerves while passing time. When we reached Scotland Yard, things settled into game mode as a new face with the name Detective Inspector Dimmock helped us find what we were looking for. Personally, I was a bit dispirited that Lestrade wasn't there – for in the week after the cabbie and chandelier fiasco we spent a few days together for formalities, during which I got to glimpse at his persona that gleamed honorably – but the new fellow didn't seem that bad. Apparently he too held some bitterness towards Sherlock (I'd be surprised if anyone didn't) but in a much more mild manner.

At any rate, he gave us the journalist's diary without any hesitation, somewhat startling me. So much for regulations, or maybe we looked too ethical or smart for stealing evidence. I don't know. But as for the real problem: his _diary_? Forgive me, but such a term seems a bit off, especially when concerning a male. Vocabulary differences were most foreseeable explanation. Regardless, in hopes of keeping my mind from crashing, I chose to dub it a journal instead – flows much more freely that way, and besides, he's a journalist with a journal. Get it? No? Well, alright. Moving on.

Abiding by Lukis' direction, we quickly made our way to Shaftesbury Avenue where the man apparently visited quite often, making it suspicious enough to warrant a checking out. While there, we scanned the area for the site. Unfortunately, the crowds of London obscured much of our view, so while John reexamined the journal for the address, I let my eyes continue to search until landing on a familiar object.

It was Sherlock; apparently we hit bull's-eye since he was here as well and looking around with the same vigor. Indeed, he was so caught up in locating the place, twisting and turning and all, that he approached us unknowingly. Seeing that a collision was imminent should I stay put, I stepped aside, fully believing John to do likewise. He didn't; far too caught up in Lukis' writing and thus bumped roughly into his flatmate.

The two gave a grunt at the sudden impact while I smirked in amusement, ready to speak along with the boys. Seemed we had a dilemma ahead of us. Who would talk first? Well no need to worry, Sherlock dutifully solved that for us.

"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died," he began eagerly, while John tried to clarify but was swept away by the man's speech, "Whatever was hidden inside that case- I've managed to piece together his movements using scraps of information..."

"Sherlock," John tried fruitlessly, and I took a breath, shaking my head.

"…credit card bills and receipts. He flew back from China and came here," Sherlock continued, completely unaware of our knowledge of the location, "Somewhere in this street. Somewhere close. I-"

He halted, finding my finger on his lips effectively stopping the speech as I exasperatedly said, "Jeez, do you ever stop to breathe? Or hey, listen?" He blinked while I retrieved my hand to point across the street, "It's over there."

Sherlock paused, gathering himself to question, "How can you tell?"

"Well, if you hadn't totally blown off John trying to explain, you'd know," I replied, "It's in Lukis's journal. Now, if you're done wasting time, let's check it out while the sun's still up."

Leading the way into The Lucky Cat Emporium that greeted us with a multitude of waving lucky golden cats, I forced my mind back into gear. Something must be in the shop – an item to explain the killings. A quick sweep, however, only revealed the typical: classical ceramic figures, paper lanterns, Chinese fans, sashes… Nothing out of the ordinary. If anything, the place gave off more of a warm put you to sleep vibe than sketchy underground facility. It was a miracle the store hadn't gone bankrupt, seeing as a thick layer of dust-covered unpurchased items throughout the place.

Approaching the first table, I admired a set of china kettles – each adorned with its own intricate blue design. Picking one up, I turned it around to gaze at the entirety. It reminded me of Soo, which instantly sobered any lingering ill will. Where was she? Was she alright? Why didn't she tell us? Letting go a breath of anxiety, I returned the item back where it was, a simple task considering the dust imprint left behind.

Feeling Sherlock's gaze, I turned and asked, "What?"

"You're worried," he simply observed.

"My, aren't you the observant one. Figured that out all by yourself have you?" I snorted, while he frowned.

"Preoccupying your mind with useless frets will prove unproductive in your pursuit," he continued, "I can only wonder how that friend of yours is coping with the thought that her fate potentially rests in your hands."

"Better than in yours. Now butt out of it. I've enough to deal with as it is without your bothersome commentary. So get your mind back on track and actually do something useful," I said sourly.

"Have you considered that her departure may have resulted from your own behaviour?" he furthered, totally bypassing my warning.

"Knock it off Sherly," I growled, holding vain hope that the use of the penname would deter him.

Alas, such wasn't the case as he continued, "Considering your American customs that prompt an invasion of personal space, while adding in your outlandish assumptions and habits, such a proposition is far more likely than the dismal scenario you believe. Probability also points in favour of this. Rather than searching for her, perhaps revising your own customs is best."

"Guys…" John murmured, but his voice went on deaf ears.

"Excuse me, but I don't think you're in any position to be lecturing me about my social agenda Mr. Sociopath," I fumed, "Surmise what you will, but I know the truth. My friend is in trouble and I'm going to find her – end of story."

"Guys," John attempted again, voice slightly higher in volume.

Once again, it failed to reach us as Sherlock plainly voiced, "Do you now? Because past evidence of your deductive skills indicate contrariwise. I may not hold the same level of social grace as most, but I'm adept enough to point out the evident flaw in your assumptions."

"Maybe you haven't realized it, but I'm not infallible – I make mistakes," I countered.

"Of course; thank you for stating the obvious," he sneered, putting on an air of superiority.

"You say that as if you're not fallible yourself. Well here's a wake-up call buddy: you're just as human as the rest of us, only more idiotic," I growled.

"By evincing the indisputable where others do not? I believe they call that charitable and wise," he shot back.

"Guys," by now John's voice acquired some heat of its own to slice through our quarrel.

"Denying your own humanity and trying to expel all emotions isn't wisdom Sherlock – it's folly. And the sooner you accept that the better," I rebutted.

The man scrunched his nose in contempt, "What a ludicrous proposition. And let my mind become clotted like the rest with useless prattle? Absurd. You lot can criticize your lives away with your sermons for all I care. After all, the prospect of curing such thoughts is futile until you accept for yourself the supremacy of a life free from the clouts of sentiment."

Both our hackles were raised as we prepared for an all-out debate, but John beat us to it.

"Guys!" the doctor snapped

"What?!" we simultaneously barked, finally torn from our little feud. The sudden raise of volume startled the poor shop owner from where she sat. It was a miracle she hadn't thrown us out yet. Guess we have desperation to thank for that.

Luckily, John managed to tone down his voice, "If you're done, then I think I've found something."

All current argument dispersed then as we approached him, looking over his shoulder to find none other than the cipher printed on the bottom of a dainty cup. Grabbing another, the same picture reflected back and things began to come together. They were price tags - and where there's a price, there's a number. A warm anger bubbled up inside me, but I had to take it outside as the men exited the shop swiftly; Sherlock's mind working rapidly while John had to nearly jog to keep up with his flatmate's longer strides.

"It's an ancient number system - Hang Zhou. These days only street traders use it," Sherlock explained, coming to a stop in front of a grocer, "They were numbers – written on the wall at the bank and at the library – numbers in an ancient Chinese dialect."

"Really? I thought such inklings were childish nonsense," I tilted my head innocently while ire poured from my tone. Okay, so maybe I hadn't let go completely of the fight. But honestly, if he just listened to me for once this whole mess could have at least been a little cleaner.

We had a small stare down - John shifting awkwardly between us as Sherlock calmly shot back, "Anything without logical evidence is worthless in a case - even a child knows that. Besides, your previous suggestion is still faulty. The number isn't 18. It's a one and 15 - _two_ numbers."

"Well excuse me. Last I checked European culture was my major, not Asian," I snapped, stomping away from the duo, "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get this little shindig over with so I can find my friend."

Faintly a click resounded to the left and I snapped my vision over, ready to snap at the poor bystander. However, all I got was a faint blurred image of a vaguely familiar person before the crowd consumed her. Great, another photo to be wary of. Just what I needed.

* * *

><p>Super long chapter: awayyy!<br>Guess who just graduated? Me! Whoop! Whoop! College life here I come!

Oh, and one quick thing. Before anyone complains about the stereotypes mentioned in this story, please let me just say that no, they are by all means not undeniably true. I'm simply making assumptions based on my own experience between the two countries and stories from some of my friends (which if you have any you're willing to share I'd love you forever). So if I offended you or something, I'm sorry but no intentions were made in that area.

Moving on, now that I have two on going stories, I've decided to split my time equally among both, although reviews high influence the likelihood of me updating one story over the other in conflict to this method. So if you want more updates, then review more.

Hope you all have a lovely day, and God bless :D


	13. BB - Brigands and Stalkers

Chapter 13

Apparently hunger resulting in low blood sugar leads to more senseless aggravation than normal, and it got so prevalent that some psychologist from Ohio christened it 'hangry' – a combination of the two words. Creative right? Sure, there's also the creepy voodoo doll study in which spouses stabbed the weird dolls in place of their partners (cause that's not indicating homicidal tendencies at all) that brought about the naming ceremony; but it definitely helped explain the heightened crankiness and lack of patience I had with Sherlock. Although to be fair, he brought a ton of it on himself, alongside the weighty predicament of Soo Lin.

Nevertheless, a simple late lunch relieved me of that added stress. Man, it had been hours since breakfast; and chasing around potential leads with Sherlock left little time to snack. Luckily, John's own rumbling stomach aided in convincing the man to take five at a dingy café across the road from the Luck Cat. Now, it was by all means not a five-star restaurant, but I could care less. At that point a charred basket of pig skins seemed glorious to me. Luckily, I got to settle for a somewhat healthier option of clear soup and fresh ginger salad.

While awaiting John's entrée – since he had to order off of the full course menu and not the quicker appetizer one to fulfill his own appetite – Sherlock nabbed a serviette and began scribbling down '1' and '15' along with the corresponding symbols. In order to quench the lingering resentment from earlier, I averted my gaze outwards, focusing instead on the multitude of passerbys and my own meal. In the meantime, John led us through a recap of the events.

"So, two men travel back from China. They both come straight to the Lucky Cat Emporium. What did they see?" he finished, writing it down in a journal of his own; probably for his blog later.

I glanced over at him while Sherlock took a breath, coming back from his own thoughts, "It's not what they saw. It's what they both brought back in those suitcases."

John looked up, following his flatmate's reasoning perfectly, "You don't mean duty free."

"Of course not; otherwise we wouldn't be here," I commented as the waitress finally returned with the doctor's food. We paused, allowing space between us and the woman to lengthen as if suspicious of her – considering the circumstances, understandable; as for John, he pleasantly took advantage of the free time to gain a few bites before Sherlock continued.

"Think about what Sebastian told us – about Van Coon; about how he kept afloat in the market."

John nodded, adding after swallowing, "Lost five million…"

"Made it back a week later," Sherlock finished, assenting towards the shop, "That's how he made such easy money."

His friend nodded, catching on while I gave a soft snort, "A smuggler huh?"

"A guy like him – he would have been perfect. A businessman, making frequent trips to Asia," Sherlock furthered while the brunt of John's interest remained with the food, leaving me the primary listener, "Lukis too – a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out; the Lucky Cat was their drop off."

"Then why did they die?" John questioned, "It doesn't make sense. If they both turned up at the shop and delivered the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them _after_ the event? _After _they'd finished the job?"

And there was the golden question tying everything together. A missing motive – the why in this whole mystery. Why did they kill Lukis and Van Coon? Bad business – trying to tie up loose ends for monetary purposes? A bit extreme on their part, and very dramatic to say the least. Not the best move for an underground organization whose existence only remained secure in the unknown. It would be like setting off fireworks and spotlights to the police saying 'hey, we're a band of illegal smugglers; come and get us! Don't forget the fortune cookie on the way out!' Still, a simpler solution popped up, courtesy of the million reality cop shows in America involving some of the criminal world's less astute members

"What if someone had sticky-fingers?" I offered, breaking the pair's pondering stares.

"How d' you mean?" John asked, not quite getting it.

"A light-fingered smuggler," Sherlock clarified, picking up what I was throwing down without the slightest hesitation or snide, which was a nice change, "One of them stole something – something from the horde."

Realization finally dawned upon him as the doctor finished, "And the killer doesn't know which one of them took it, so he threatens them both!"

"Exactly," I smiled, the expression dimming when faced with Sherlock's own turning inquisitive as he looked outside. Frowning, I followed his line of sight to a door beside the smuggler HQ. On the ground appeared to be some sort of phone book, the Yellow Pages if I was correct. Uncommon, especially in terms of America where the item was more of a firewood substitute than anything, but not totally out of the blue. So what captured his intrigue?

"Remind me," the man began, tearing me back into the room, "When was the last time that it rained?"

"Hmm?" John replied in mid bite as I eyed Sherlock questioningly, shifting as he stood up and swiftly departed to get a closer view.

The pair of us left behind looked at each other momentarily. I sighed, happy to have finished the majority of my food already; unfortunately for John, he only managed a few bites and was forced to forfeit the remainder in pursuit of his flatmate.

We caught up as he let the damp pages brush the underside of his thumb. They were swollen wet – having been caught in the rain for some time, yet the last it rained was what, three days ago? Odd, though maybe the owner didn't want the extra five pounds of dead weight? Shame, could've been used to squash a spider or something. Although, based on its place against the door, vacancy proved more probable. Should the door even budge, it would have knocked the directory over. So, who was the lucky owner?

My vision trailed up to where the tell-tale sign beside the door stood – only to leave me flabbergasted. _Soo Lin Yao_. Impossible; but there it was, in _her_ handwriting, dainty flower and all. My mouth involuntary peeped open, visualizing the shock that numbed my mind to the discussion Sherlock and John were having. It didn't make sense. Not that Soo lived here, though I always imagined her living in a different part of town to ward off stereotypical feelings, but the evidence suggested she hadn't been there in a while. Where else could she have gone then? Out of town?

The shrill ring of the doorbell brought me out of my split second stupor. Sherlock waiting two seconds in hopes that the signs pointed elsewhere and my friend would show up at the door, yet ultimately deciding otherwise. He cast his view upwards towards the flat, but when no movement resulted, he gave a huff and proceeded down the side alley with us in tow.

"No one's been in that flat for at least three days," he explained, darting down the damp space.

"They could have gone on holiday. So what?" John asked, and a blipper of hope scuttled in my chest. There; I wasn't the only one who thought it! That must mean something, right?

"Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" Sherlock countered, dually rebutting his statement while dashing my hopes. Above, the flat's windows were clearly open – not the thing I wanted to see from such an orderly girl as Soo Lin.

While caught up in this thought, Sherlock's attention was fixated on the scaffolding behind the flat, and a moment later he jumped up, securing the end of the ladder. Instantly I knew where he was likely going and didn't like one bit of it. And why not? If what I was thinking was correct, he was going to break into my friend's flat. What if she was inside sick? That would explain the window but lead to an awfully awkward conversation I'd really rather avoid.

So I did what was only natural, propose a question that was more like a warning than inquiry, "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he responded, climbing up the steps without missing a beat.

Oh no. Not today buddy. Snatching the end just before it got out of reach; I hauled myself up after him, intent on putting a stop to his mischievous plan. Sure, intentions were in all likelihood good, but familiar privacy trumped potential lead. I for one was wholeheartedly convinced Soo held no role in whatever smuggling scheme was going on – the world was not small enough for that. Sherlock was barking up the wrong tree, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let him into that flat. Noble intentions, but that's about it as he prepared to leap inside. Stupid men with their stupid long legs.

"Sherlock! Wendy!" John hissed from below, apparently missing the chance to join us. Good, one less problem I had to deal with. Now I could focus on the snooping Holmes – who presently jumped through the window into the flat. Great.

Grinding my teeth, I carefully pulled myself through the window to see him holding a vase, staring down at a puddle of water barely absorbed by the rug. Scowling at him I growled, "Nice. Not the most graceful one I see." He merely kept his eyes glued to the spot as I continued, "You'd better clean it up – or hey, I've a better idea: leave before you break something else."

This time he glanced back at me and explained, "Someone else has been here before us. Somebody else broke in and knocked over the vase like me."

"Oh great, so there's another clumsy kook with the same misconduct as you," I sneered, firming my tone, "Now I mean it, get lost."

"I hardly think this is a suitable time for spite," he frowned.

"Then we can continue this outside of Soo's flat," I said madly, balling my fists. The sooner I shoved him out the better. Already my muscles were tense, apprehensive should the named pop out at any moment. I could practically feel her eyes watching us.

"Soo?"

"Get out!" I hissed, snatching the vase from his hands.

Seeing that he was getting nowhere, he walked further into the flat. Some vain hope spoke that he heeded my words and obeyed for once, but the reality was quite the opposite. Instead, he held the audacity to stroll up to the washing machine and pull out an article of her clothing and sniff it. Barely suppressing an outraged scream, I set the vase back down on the table and snatched the item from his hands.

"What are you doing?" I snarled, "I thought I told you to leave."

He met my stare with a defiant one of his own, "Investigating. Isn't that what you wanted? Help in finding your friend? I presume this is her flat, correct?" his arm swung as if showcasing the fastidiously clean flat, adorned with feminine touches of dried flowers, embroidered cushions and a Chinese screen.

So he figured that out, good for him. Did little to ebb my fury, "By breaking into her flat? Yeah, you're a real help."

"Did you have another suggestion?"

"Yeah, not committing a crime to figure out something I already know. Soo's been gone for three days, she's probably-"

"Sick? On vacation?" he finished infuriatingly, "Please, don't tell me you believe that nonsense."

I growled, ready to heave him over my shoulder and haul him out myself, but he spoke first, "Look, do you want to find your friend or not?"

Silence. Of course I wanted to locate Soo, that was still the one thing keeping me from blowing the two of them off for this long. But at the present I wanted him out more than anything, and seeing this, Sherlock made amends to his tactics.

"Three minutes," he offered.

I glared up at him, every fiber of my being telling me not to agree yet knowing that the alternative proved much more cumbersome. So I ground my teeth reluctantly, setting a timer on my watch, "Three minutes; and you better be out or so help me..."

Without need for another word he set to work, fully intending to utilize his time wisely. I kept an eye on him while examining the place myself – might as well follow in suit so not to let the opportunity slip by. The little studio flat had good taste, a trademark of its owner, yet lacked the funds for an all-out indulgence. Anyhow, I liked it. Not over-the-top, but liveable nonetheless. Still, it was freezing in here – likely due to the lack of built up warmth from turning the heater on; yet another indicator of her absence.

Through the doorway leading into the kitchen, I spied Sherlock scrunching his nose at the opening of a carton of milk. Probably gone sour. I thought of going to the store and nabbing one for Soo later as a secret 'I'm sorry for breaking into your flat' gift, but was cut off at the recognition of John's voice rising up into the space.

"Could you not keep doing this?" he yelled. Boy did he sound cross. I suppose getting left out will do that.

I glanced at my watch, "Two minutes," I warned Sherlock before turning and calling down to John, "Just wait a bit longer. We'll be down in a second."

"What?" he said.

"We'll be down in a second!" I raised my voice to no avail. Oh whatever, he'd get it in a bit.

"Size eight feet. Small, but… athletic," Sherlock thought aloud, pushing aside some decorative beads hanging from the ceiling in lieu of a door. Following him inside, I mentally groaned at the fact that we were in her bedroom. If she ever found out I'd be the next to appear on the paper's obituary list.

From the mantelpiece, Sherlock grabbed a photo of Soo and some young boy – likely a childhood friend considering Andy's intel. I glowered, checking my watch to see barely 30 seconds had passed as he began examining it with his little magnifying glass. The ringing of the doorbell resounded once more and I compromised in letting John at least know what was going on before he drove us both insane.

"You have a little over a minute left. I'm going to fill John in, and by the time I'm done you better be marching those feet down and out," I warned, pointing a finger threateningly at him as I made my way out, "If you break anything, so help me…"

I let myself trail off and made it halfway downstairs when a sudden thud resounded. Ooooh. A flurry of torture methods still fresh from the trip to the London Dungeon surfaced in my mind. He was definitely going to get it- Wait; was that...?

Backtracking, I stumbled into the room to find Sherlock being strangled, his legs flailing while arms desperately attempting to evade suffocation by a cloth bound tightly about his neck. On the other end, a smallish man cloaked in black restraining any movement of the biting object, only stopping upon noting my presence in the room. Without a moment's hesitation, I plucked a pair of scissors from the table beside a needle and thread and pointed them at the intruder.

"Don't move!" I warned, cautiously circling towards him, making it clear I was in no mood for games. Okay, poor choice of words. Sherlock losing consciousness and all, but it was a spur of the moment thing. Besides, it wasn't like he followed through anyway.

Unwaveringly, he released his grip on Sherlock and bolted towards the door. In my attempt to stop him, I lashed out with the weapon but only got a scrap of his thick jacket. Scowling, my will jumped to pursue the potential threat to my friend but my body had other plans, keeping me rooted until I turned and helped pry the cord off of Sherlock's neck. Now free, he gave violent coughs, struggling to reclaim lost oxygen.

I steadied him, holding onto his shoulders until his breathing became more regular and he managed to look up at me as I gave a weak smile, "That's twice in two days I've saved you. Thought I told you to stay out of trouble."

He made to reply but only croaked out an unintelligible groan. "Easy now," I helped him up, "Don't push yourself."

However, on the way up, a small object caught my eye. Curiously, I picked up what appeared to be an origami lotus flower made of peculiarly black paper. Seeing if Sherlock recovered enough to explain, I turned so he could behold the piece. I didn't like what I saw. His vacant gaze narrowed sharply in reverie, broken only by a beeping resonating from my watch.

"Time's up. Let's get going," I said, pocketing the odd art and leading the way down the stairs to where John unwittingly waited during our little skirmish, pink with irritation at our exclusive, reckless actions.

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago," Sherlock managed to croak out.

At the information, John's expression flipped to a one of concern, "Somebody?"

Sherlock nodded, continuing roughly, " Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

"But how, exactly?" his flatmate questioned.

In response, Sherlock looked at me, prompting John to do the same, "Wendy?"

"Fine, I'll fill you guys in on everything," I sighed, "But not until we get to the museum. It's about time I give Andy an update, especially after all this."

…

"When was the last time that you saw her?" Sherlock asked Andy while pacing around the room, admiring the artifacts passingly.

"Three days ago, weren't you listening?" I snapped before the guy had a chance to reply.

We both sat side by side like a pair of students being scolded on a bench meant for weary tourists after a day's worth of standing around museums and walking about. From all that I filled Andy in on, he needed to sit down if only for a stable piece of ground beneath him in place of his shaking legs. Nevertheless, he took the information surprisingly well – that or we both were so far in denial that the overbearing thought that Soo's life was in danger was simply rejected from our minds, leaving us to be interrogated by Sherlock and John; the first giving a dissenting frown at my outburst.

While his disapproval did nothing to spur my manners, a light touch of the shoulder by Andy sobered any ill will threatening to spill over as he calmly told, "Three days ago – here, at the museum. This morning they told me she'd resigned. Just like that. Just left her work unfinished."

I gave a sigh, impatiently tapping my foot on the floor. Sherlock and John already knew this from what I told them, why'd he need to hear it again? A second opinion is good, but we were wasting time – something that Soo or anyone in the room didn't have the luxury of.

Prying away from his inspection of Empress' mannequin, Jade exhibition and wall of Benefactors, Sherlock continued, "What was the last thing she did – on her final afternoon?"

At the mention of 'final' Andy winced and I glared at Sherlock for callously adding that adjective. He tilted his head, "What?"

"You have no sensibility in these situations whatsoever do you?" I shook my head, knowing that any attempt to get him to see his own thickness was in vain.

At any rate, his reply was cut short as Andy hesitantly spoke, "W-Well the tea ceremony of course."

We gave him our attention as he shifted uncomfortably under our intimidating stares, beginning to head towards the storage room while continuing, "She does this demonstration for the tourists – the tea ceremony. Once done, she would've packed up her things," he opened the doors, revealing the dusty statues decorating the room while leading the way to the location, "And just put them in here."

As he began turning open the shelf, Sherlock distanced himself from us, seemingly having his attention caught. We followed his form until matching the object of interest in our own perception. My feet wobbled and I nearly had to grab the wall for support. Across from us, painted onto one of the statues, was the death-wishing cipher, and there was no doubt of its intended recipient.

"Oh no…" Andy murmured, knowing full well what it meant while I closed my eyes, taking a breath. Things were not looking good. Not at all.

After a sober farewell induced by the hovering pressure of closing time, we headed out to return to Baker Street. John and Sherlock both huddled together, exchanging hushed words probably for my own sake. Not that it mattered; at that point my denial gave way to shock at the reality before me. Someone wanted Soo dead – someone involved in the smuggling business. But they must be wrong, right? Soo? Smuggle? The girl looked as if she couldn't take a paper napkin from a restaurant let alone some rare artifact across the border. Maybe she got mixed up in it somehow? If that were the case, than it was my duty to make sure she got out alive.

"Sherlock!" a voice called out, and we all looked to see some guy dressed in a dirty hoodie and sneakers run up to us.

While Sherlock gave passive recognition towards the newcomer, John scowled, "Ah, well look who it is…"

"Pardon?" I asked, tilting my head inquisitively.

John quickly filled me in on his identity as Raz continued without the slightest recognition of John's lingering resentment, "I've found something I think you'll like."

He glanced over at us before leading the way – John and I both following with a bit more restraint than Sherlock. Unlike him, we weren't too terribly fond of tagging along with a person we barely knew – social norms and the like. In any event, he guided us down the Hungerford Bridge on the southern bank of the Thames. Lights twinkled and reflected upon the river's surface into my eyes, casting a spell that drowned out their conversation. Be that as it may, the trance's life was fleeting, as an eerie sensation sent a chill down my spine.

Someone was watching; I could practically feel their eyes boring into the back of my skull. I turned - this time with no hesitation in an almost dramatic way. But that was my intent. Bystanders who have nothing to do with staring will give humorous, odd reactions if at all recognizing the action, while the culprit practically hands themselves in if they're not up to par with more malicious criminals. Luckily, our stalker wasn't the haut monde of the crime world.

In between passing faces, the startled expression of a woman cloaked in black met my attention. It was the same one from that morning and afternoon. The creep was following us! I narrowed my eyes; suddenly the idea of a stalkerish fan didn't fit anymore. More like suspicious culprit… Our stare off broke at that point, and she turned to make her escape. Yeah, as if.

Tearing away from the boys, I cautiously followed, wanting to avoid any and all violent confrontation if at all possible. Apparently it went well, considering my absence went unnoticed as the three remained tuned into their discussion and journeying.

The woman, however, cast anxious looks back - affirming I was still on her trail. For a bit, I dodged the glances while steadily gaining ground. At this rate things would be wrapped up before John and Sherlock even recognized my absence. Good. Knowing the doctor he'd pop a vein while simultaneously having a heart attack at my reckless action. I'd best avoid that, and would have, had she not gotten a lucky break and seeing straight to me before b-lining it to the nearest alleyway. Great, things just got tremendously harder. Growling determinedly, I pursued aggressively, even knocking aside some pedestrians in my path.

"Stop!" I yelled, although why on earth should I? It wasn't as if she was going to obey - heck, like anyone would in this situation.

Anyhow, she kept up her flight - stealing the unfair advantage of people camouflaging her every other second. But there was no way I'd let that happen, not with Soo's safety in jeopardy. My friend was in danger and sketch woman looked awfully at fault. This was more than a desperation driven hunch, it was one of those very logical, chock full of faith suspicions. If it turned out contrariwise than it'd just be another awkward story to laugh about later on. No, if anything, she had a lot to explain for following us around – either way, she wasn't going anywhere on my watch.

Or so I thought. As I whipped around the corner into an opening between structures, I found myself strikingly alone. The woman was gone. She must have possessed some serious hide-and-seek skills, or worse yet, was a phantom haunting around. Ugh, not a happy thought. I don't care what anyone says or thinks: ghosts are never a good thing. Sure, they act all 'do you want to be my friend' and goody two-shoes happy at first but come next week that smile turns scary slasher and you're running for your life, praying to high heaven it's not one of those poltergeists with an affinity to cling onto you instead of the house. Long story short, I hoped she wasn't a specter - kinda hard to punch someone who has a one-sided 'I can hit you but you can't even touch me' advantage.

"Show yourself!" I demanded, yet another futile attempt to get her to do the last thing I'd expect a stranger to do. Still, what's life without a bit of insane hope?

Silence followed, and I turned in circles, desperate to find where she was hiding but coming up short. Cursing at my failed attempt to apprehend her, knowing that it only put Soo at more risk. I wanted to hit something or thoughtlessly go on a rampage against the debris in the alley, but the ringing of my phone prevented any extreme measures my frustration would have pushed me into committing.

Pulling the device out, I answered to hear John's voice, "Wendy?"

"Yes, John, I'm alright," I sighed, combing a hand through my hair.

"Thank god. What were you thinking? Going off like that," he scolded, "Never mind. Just meet up with me. I'll text you the location – and no side quests!"

"Okay, okay. Tell me where you want me to go," I said non-confrontationally, completely drained from the unproductive chase.

True to his word, he sent me a set of coordinates – luckily for him I had been through my share of naval training and was able to decipher the numbers and put them into my phone's GPS. Setting off, I let the straightforward prospect take my mind off of the lingering worries while providing enough incentive to stay awake. I passed a clock, managing to get the time of a quarter past midnight before continuing on with a yawn. Early mornings and late nights were never a good combo when they lacked an afternoon nap.

The chill of the night didn't help matters either. Cold nights always did lull me to sleep, and the distance from the bustling city life only added to the weight of my dreary eyes. I was a morning bird, not a night owl - unless there was coffee involved. The creepy fact that it got dark enough to force my phone's flashlight into existence prompted a bit more alertness, but if I were to be truly honest, in the scenario a stranger/mugger/thief/murderer came up to me then, I'd just let them take me wherever if only to lie down a bit. That's how worn I was.

It barely even came up in my mind that I reached the meeting point until I heard the muffled mix of John and Sherlock's voices. Relieved to have finally found them, I looked up, smile faltering. The taller man was holding the shorter one's shoulders and spinning him around, appearing to be performing some foreign dance. You can imagine what my weary brain concluded upon sighting that.

"Am I interrupting something?" I asked, giving them a weird look as they started at the sound of my voice, John pushing away from Sherlock quickly thereafter.

"No, just-" he started, fumbling his words.

I gave an exhausted sigh, "No, no; I don't care. Do what you will, just – can we go home now? I'm about to pass out and Sherly's coat keeps changing colors. Do you suppose I'm hallucinating?"

* * *

><p>Hoopla for quick update! I'm really trying to get this episode over quickly, mainly because I have another story to update and Netflix finally brought series three to life (fanaticly freaks out and squeals inwardly) but also because I can't wait to move onto the Great Game - definitely one of my favourite episodes beside Hounds. Although, series three is really good but I have to literally bring a tissue box with me to watch. All those Sherlock feels and gah he's so lonely and gah ;u;<p>

Please review/fav/follow if you like c;  
>God bless!<p> 


	14. BB - Blood Ties

Chapter 14

That night a blanket of nothingness dominated my unconsciousness, providing no soothing dreams or even a frightful nightmare as evidence of the time passed had been a few hours instead of a couple of seconds. In short, waking up wasn't fun. I once had a friend whose little sister complained to her mom about not liking to be woken up while we were cleaning after dinner. You don't realize how hard it was not to slap her for saying something so stupidly obvious. When is waking up early _ever_ a fun prospect?

At any rate the deed was done and I'd prefer not to waste the lingering daylight away in bed; especially under the returning circumstances. Soo was in trouble - sleeping in wasn't a luxury I could afford any longer. Besides, it was unnaturally bright for the morning. I thought cities were supposed to sheer off some of that. Apparently not, or it was a sign to get out of bed.

So a quick wardrobe change later and I was walking into the flat above, only to find it completely empty. Were they still asleep? I checked the time. Noon. Talk about sleeping in. At least that explained the mega-enhanced light drifting through. Of course; I would look at the one clock I forgot to change over. Figures. Regardless, it was time for them to wake up.

I made my way towards Sherlock's room, opening the door without hesitation, which probably wasn't the best move. I mean, what if he wasn't decent? Ugh, I shuddered at the thought. Not something I ever wanted to see. But too late to stop now, so I settled with keeping my gaze fixed on the far wall while greeting, "Rise and shine Sherly. Time to start the afternoon."

No reply followed. The room was empty. I vaguely recalled him objecting to the idea of sleep during a case in an argument once. Stupid. I could see going into a coma, but power naps actually improved creative thinking and this stubborn idiot refused to even close his eyes for more than a second - the only exceptions being to blink and visit some palace or whatnot. Honestly, I cared more about proving him wrong than anything else at the time.

Back to the present, I took the opportunity to scan his room. Alright, that sounded uber creepy and stalkerish. Way not what I was going for. More like a counterinsurgency for all the times I caught him snooping around. Definitely not what I wanted to walk into after a long day of classes. Speaking of which: no I am not skipping and passionately abhor the practice. I was finding Soo, so that qualifies as something right? She was practically family, so family emergency should cover things.

But I'm getting off track. Returning to Sherlock's room. The place seemed a whole lot more disorganized than I'd have thought. Now, it wasn't even close to the mess of a room I slept in, but considering how OCD the occupant was, the living area had need of improvement despite the overwhelming order. Off in the corner rested a heap of clothes and to the right, on the bookshelf, a few books slumped over, and that's really all I could say. Even the sheets on his bed were flawless - and if that doesn't say something about him (whoa; I mean that he is very orderly not that- yeah, you understand...), than the eclectic range of objects dutifully filled in the remaining details while reflecting a bit more about my neighbour's characteristics.

The enormous periodic table hanging beside me doubtlessly took the prize of most prominent piece in the room - with the elements taking the classical positions of ascending atomic order while color coordinating to its own respective family. I'd have left it as a simple admiration considering his background in science had it not been for the sighting of a second, smaller one across the room, underneath which I could only say was a memorial photo of the Russian creator Dmitri Mendeleev. What? Chemistry was a Gen. Ed credit and it was either pay attention in lectures or cram the night before exams. As I mentioned before, Wendy likey sleep.

And the knowledge actually proved useful for once. Shocker right? It showcased a strong probability of Sherlock's major being Chemistry. Not something I'd jump to, but taking the mini chem kit on one of the shelves and his numerous experiments strewn about the building, not surprising. If anything, it livened up his character a bit, making him appear more the curious pyro kid and not stuck-up maniac storing human parts in other people's fridges since his was too full from other trials. Yeah, welcome to my life of spleens and eyelids beside a jug of O.J. At least it helped curve appetite.

Moving on to our next exhibit, a traditional Judo certificate hung above the bed and I could only assume his name was scribed somewhere on it. Once again, Euro major not Asian. Very enlightening nonetheless. So he wasn't totally helpless when Mr. Sikh showed up; also explained his unarmed combat, some of his weird poses, and unperturbed attitude when I threatened to beat him to a pulp over the pink suitcase. Remember that? Ah, good times.

To my left, hanging above his dressing cabinet was an 1848 daguerreotype photograph of the infamous Edgar Allen Poe, which dutifully surprised me; not that he read famous works, but rather dark, gothic poetry that I would have thought he believed under him considering that pompous attitude of his. That and the uncanny resemblance in hair style. It appeared that the American poet was some sort of source of admiration to Sherlock. I suppose Poe was credited for psychologically scarring poems and rumoured to have created detective fiction, which probably sourced most of Sherlock's preconceived deduction capabilities.

Mentors and other imagery aside, I found myself pleasantly acquainted a bit more with the man and decided enough snooping had occurred to level the scales. Perhaps now our relationship would improve a tiny bit, but I wasn't holding out on that. I began to leave the room when the sheen of a frame caught my eyes, prompting me to curiously venture over to the source while blinking away the dots in my vision.

Stopping in front of a set of drawers, my brows raised in mild surprise at the photo before me. I had to pull it into my hands and closer to my face to confirm what I was seeing. There was no doubt. Displayed in the tinged frame were Sherlock and Mycroft from their youth. But they looked so different! The younger appeared no older than eight years, and showed off a tight head of sun-kissed brown curls. I could only attribute the darkening resulting from age and time indoors, along with the intensification of his irises that were much softer in the photo. I bit back a grin. He must've been a cute little blondie. Whoa, wait. I did _not_ just inwardly squeal at a younger Sherlock. Can we just forget I thought that?

Moving onto the elder, I had to chomp down on my cheek to keep from bursting out in laughter. The adolescent dwarfed his brother in both length and width. Had it not been for the familiar facial features, I'd likely not recognized him at all. Mycroft's array of diet foods definitely made sense in face of his semi, okay _not _semi, obese past. What a little chubster; I giggled, the action morphing into a jump at the next sound.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Uh oh, caught with my hands in the cookie jar. I wonder if Mycroft could relate. Okay, bad. Not helping my cause or situation.

"You really should knock you know. Coming in with such indecency is hardly hospitable," I adopted his words from the last I caught him in my flat, not even bothering to turn and look at the man.

"Hospitality doesn't apply to those who breach their own borders of moralities," Sherlock argued, stepping over and plucking the item from my hand.

"Aww, I wasn't done yet!" I complained as he set the photo back, pushing it a little further back so I couldn't reach. Stupid tall people.

"You can violate my privacy later," Sherlock said, taking my arm and pulling me out of the room. Once in the living room, he shoved a cipher book in my hands, instructing, "As for the present, you may make yourself useful."

"Are you trying to say something about my intelligence?" I scowled at the sight of the title: _Cracking Codes and Cryptograms for Dummie_s, giving him a glance, "Cause I have multiple examples to prove you wrong."

"Do you now?" He replied uninterested.

"Yep; they're alphabetized. Where shall we start: the Academy Awards nominees or zelophobic entrepreneur? How about the takeout timing? That was a fun night," I mused, opening the book to begin the strenuous process. And by no means was I obeying Sherlock. No, I was doing it for Soo; so let there be no doubt there.

"As I recall, you were off by 39 seconds. Hardly what I would call an indication of your abilities."

"Better than your guess. You were off by an entire six minutes."

"Like I said before, your perception of my handwriting was at fault - not my deduction. The number I wrote obviously presented a seven, not one."

"You keep telling yourself that. Even John sided with me there," I shot back, "Speaking of, where is he?"

"In his room resting," Sherlock informed, "Tonight we will be meeting that confidant of yours."

"Soo?" Instantly all faint attraction to the book dissolved as I practically pounced on the man, "Did you find her? Where is she? Is she okay?" I narrowed my eyes, "Did you snitch about the flat thing?"

He frowned in mixed disapproval of my ramblings and close proximity in which I was holding one of his arm. Noting this, I flushed but quickly swatted it away and backed up, "So? Spit it out!"

"No, I did not encounter Soo Lin Yao. And should I have happened upon her, such unavailing questions would not transpire when the more imperative topic stands in her position among our killer's hit list," he continued, turning back to the book in his own hands, "That man from yesterday authorised tonight's return, where your friend will promptly show in accordance to your testimonies involving her affiliation to those pots."

"Pots? What do you- Wait," I narrowed my eyes, "You went back to the museum without me? Why didn't you wake me up?!"

"It would have taken too much time."

"It would have taken two minutes!"

"Exactly, by which we would traverse three kilometers otherwise squandered during your preparation," he argued while I scoffed, folding my arms angrily. "Oh don't continue this petty feud, you know it's unbecoming of you. We leave at dusk. I suggest passing the time through research involving the cipher or some other productive measure."

I huffed, going back to the couch and plopping down. Instead of giving into the urge to make a biting reply, I settled for reading the book; beginning on the first page: 'You may have picked this book up for any number of reasons...' You have no idea...

And so, an afternoon of grudgingly slow reads began, and shortly after a countdown app for when we planned to depart. I swear, the thing had to be broken. No way five hours passed by that quickly in the painstaking presence of multiple dead ended, poorly written books and Sherlock. I must've zoned out or something, but was happy regardless to have stepped out near the back of the museum that evening - albeit the suspenseful circumstances of course.

We approached the door that Andy graciously left open, an option I now found doubt for. Sure it let us in, but who else? As far as we knew, the action granted easy access for the killer, who was probably trailing us if sketch woman from the other night meant anything. Why couldn't they just think? Or hey, woke me up so that Andy could pass over the keys to the place. Whatever, I suppose it's just water under the bridge now.

Reaching the door first, Sherlock slowly opened it in apprehension of a sudden, unwarranted noise. No need to alert whoever was still inside of our presence. Which begs the question, didn't the museum have a security guard? I couldn't remember ever seeing or hearing of one, but it was a good question nonetheless. Maybe it was only an American thing.

My thoughts cut short as Sherlock began to worm himself through the crack he made, but before he could get halfway I stopped him, grabbing his arm, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Entering the facility. Any more poorly timed, daft questions you wish to ask?" He gave an annoyed look back, "No? Then stay put, too many people will frighten her."

"And let you be the welcoming committee? Come on Sherly, we want to talk to Soo not scare her away," I countered pulling myself closer to the door, "I know her and would logically be the better choice, you know that. Besides, I actually know where I'm going, so stand aside and let me handle this."

Almost grudgingly, he let me brush past him and into the darkness. Inside, I stopped short, beckoning his whispered sneer, "Oh dear, not achluophobic are we?"

"Shut up, it's been like three seconds. My eyes are actually healthy and need time to adjust, moron," I growled back, effectively silencing him in time to complete the process.

Stealthily, I focused on keeping my weight balanced so that my steps fell soundlessly on the macadamised floor - no need for pretty looks when considering faculty; too much wasted expense. Advancing towards the appraisal room, I winced at a slight tap from behind, glaring back at the sight of Sherlock and John a few meters away, the latter giving an apologetic look. So much for waiting, although in all honesty I wasn't going to return for some time and, sadly, expected as much.

Reverting back to the task at hand, I entered into the wide space, instantly locating Soo's table across the room. A figure I could only hope was her sat there performing the infamous ceremony. A grin lit my face mischievously but quickly died down. Under normal circumstances this would be some typical prank meant for good intentioned heart attacks, but not tonight. Things were different, and I suddenly prayed that my assumption was correct. Nothing like jumping up on the wrong person - and let me just vent, that is such an awkward moment. You feel so sure that it's the person you know in front of you. Correct hair style, build, complexion and then bam! It's not them and you are left to shamefully explain or run away while they dub you some creeper. Ugh. Not fun; not fun at all.

Luckily for me, few people knew how to perform such a task while holding a partiality towards oriental spiced tea. So I went for it, not knowing that Sherlock's patience ran out at that exact time.

"Soo?"

"Fancy a biscuit with that?"

She gasped at our mingled voices, projecting much louder than either of us intended. Indeed, it startled her so much that she lost her grip on the ancient Zisha ceremonial teapot. Instinctively, we both lunged for it, ending with it resting in his hands under mine. We both heaved a sigh of relief before straightening up and returning to give the dumbstruck Soo Lin our attention.

"Centuries old," Sherlock warned, handing her the pot, "Don't break that."

"She wouldn't have dropped it if you just listened and stayed back," I snapped, slapping the back of his head. Turning to Soo, my anger morphed into a relieved smile, "Hey there butterfingers."

"Wendy?" her eyes widened in recognition, "What are you-? Who?"

She looked out of place, shifting slightly upon John's arrival; soothing her a bit, I explained, "They're friends, and despite a defect in following orders, they can be pretty helpful. Now, wanna tell me what you've been up to lately?"

…

I couldn't believe it. Soo? A smuggler? What next? Sherlock suddenly being some famous detective? Well, the world suddenly lost all sense to me, so go for it Sherly.

Seriously though, talk about catching someone off-guard. Made me reconsider all the presumptions I held of her. Although I must admit, the tattoo was cool. In a pretty, intricate, secret meaning sort of way – notwithstanding that little tidbit forced her to commit illegal crimes to survive, thus bringing about the current predicament of course. Whoever this spider, Zhi-something character was, I didn't like him. Especially considering our first meeting ended with Sherlock nearly suffocating to death – although, I could relate.

"I was fifteen, living back in China, in the Yellow Dragon City," Soo explained, bringing me out of my stupor as she covered said mark, "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way to survive day to day except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they?" Sherlock questioned.

"They are called the 'Black Lotus,'" she explained. Figures, taking into account their obsession with the black origami art. But side notes for another time, back to Soo, "At the time, they focused solely on hauling alcohol, cheap cigarettes and the like. No one thought of searching the pockets of a school girl, so I got by easily. But they began moving to more expensive trade, and by the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong," she trailed off, grimacing at the memories, "I'm not proud. I'm ashamed of how I lived."

I gave a sympathetic smile, resting a hand on her shoulder, "Well, all things considered, you did what you could. Morals and legalities aside, I'm glad that it kept you alive and on the path to this place – life would have been very different without you to save Andy and I."

She smiled, grateful for the support that gave her strength to continue her tale until the present moment when Sherlock pointed out the elephant in the room. The? No, scratch that, _one_ of the behemoths in the room. There, much better.

"And then he caught up with you?" he stated more so than asked.

Soo nodded, once again upset and remarkably Sherlock wasn't the case. Okay yeah, he asked the question, but in a much more delicate manner than I deemed him capable of. Wow, things really are changing quickly.

My friend swallowed painfully, "I had hoped after five years they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours – they are never far away," she took a breath, wiping away the beginnings of tears, "He came to my flat. He asked me to help him – to track down something that was stolen."

"And you've no idea what it was?" John inquired and a part of me had to hold back the rest from slapping him upside the head. Of course she didn't know, hadn't he been listening? She got out of the loop… Or so she thought. Seemed like the flower gang didn't take resignations too kindly.

Consenting to the doctor's presumption, she continued, "I refused to help." That's my girl, staying the heck away from the grimy past and its murderous cohorts.

"So he sent you the cipher as a punishment," Sherlock furthered, hitting it directly on the mark as she once more gave a defeated nod.

"He's ruthless – a fanatic. He would strike down anyone. Even family – if they betrayed him," she murmured, a torn expression marring her features.

"I take it you knew him well, when you were living back in China," John leaned forwards slightly.

"Oh yes," she nodded, staring straight across at the man, "He's my brother."

I nearly fell off the stool. Her _brother_?! And I thought Sherlock and Mycroft had a complicated thing going on. Please, this trumps their sibling rivalry and then some. But seriously, how messed up could you get? Choosing some black organization over your own family? Not even the Holmes brothers, as cruel they can be at times, would do that - or at least I hope so. It definitely explained her inner turmoil while leaving us speechless. I mean, how do you answer that? 'Oh that must really stink, having a murderer for a sibling and being next on his list. Christmas dinners must have been something, eh?' Even Sherlock's mouth hung slightly open in surprise. That's how large of a brick wall we slammed into.

It took me half of Soo's continuation to snap back from disbelief enough to register her words, "…My brother has become their puppet in the power of the one they call Shan – Black Lotus General. I turned my brother away. He said I betrayed him," her brow furrowed in possible remembrance of her own reaction to him saying such. As for me, I would've disowned him for it. Getting mad and dramatic because she refused to help kill someone? That's not betrayal - that's common sense dude.

Sherlock produced from his pockets the trio of print outs he nabbed from the flat – each containing a picture of the cipher: one from the bank, one from the library, and the final along the railroad tracks. The last he pushed to the forefront, "Can you decipher these?"

Soo Lin leaned forwards, pointing to the marks of the back two. "These are numbers," she began while I gave Sherlock a warning glance when he made to say something rude – that we already knew that little bit. "Here: the line across the man's eyes – it's the Chinese number one."

"And this one is fifteen. But what's the code?" he managed to get out before I had to chance to stop him, his obsession for answers peeping out.

She looked up at him, surprisingly calm given his leaking desires, "All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book-"

Just then, nearly all the lights cut off in a potent noise that caused all of us to jump. Well, all except Sherlock that is, but I know a part of him was startled – just not enough for a physical reaction. Being so full of yourself can have that effect. Now where was I? Oh right, unnatural power outage. We gave the room a quick sweep to see who caused the outage, but no one was visible. Only the creeping shadows beyond.

I glanced towards my friend to see her face full of terror as she softly spoke, "He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me."

She pursed her eyes, desperately trying to fight off the rising fear. I could only imagine what she was going through – having the threat of her own brother coming at her? I'm a happy only child, so sibling problems didn't apply in my life, or at least ones involving blood ties. The closest thing I could think of was if I were in her position and my father was coming after me, and not in the nostalgic hide-and-seek/manhunt way, I'd be pretty conflicted. Overall, it wasn't a fun thought.

We needed to come up with a plan – some strategy. It was four on one; we could totally figure something out even if he had the advantage of stealth at the time. Each side had its own gun, so all that left was the battlefield layout, an easy feat when combining Sherlock and-

I paused, looking around. Where the heck did he go? From the left I saw him disappearing out the door with John calling after in a hushed yet urgent tone – not wanting to give away his pursuit but also warning him of his stupid idea to go into a gunfight with no gun. Idiot. Looks like I'll have to save him once again - third time's the charms after all.

However, my attempt to drag him back into the room came to a stop as John grabbed my arm and pulled me and Soo towards the back and behind a sturdy desk. Yeah, like that would protect us from the shooter. All he needed to do was slide to the right and bam: a clear target.

"John, we need to go after Sherlock!" I hissed.

"He knows what he's doing, he'll be fine. If anything, our chasing after him will only give away his position while threatening our own," he argued, "Just trust Sherlock."

"Yeah, I trust him to get shot!" I snapped, and as if on cue a gunshot ricocheted outside the room, "See?! He's going to get himself killed!"

"Fine, fine!" John tensed getting to his feet. I tried to follow but he pushed me back down, "No, you stay here. I'm not having you walk right into the line of fire." I made to argue but he cut me off, "Stay in here; bolt the door after me."

I scowled at John's retreating form, fully materializing my vehemence against acting the damsel in distress. That was just too sexist and aggravating for my character regardless of the situation at hand. So he wanted to play the heroic Prince Charming who saves the day with Sherlock, big whoop. They could cavort around in their shiny armor the whole night, just not with me in the tower. Screw knights in shining armor; the only one who saves me is me.

With this fuelling my drive, I made to get up, briefly noticing Soo on the way up. She looked deathly pale and her breathing shallowed. To put it short, she was torn between freaking out and throwing up. There was no way I could leave her there by herself. So I grudgingly sheathed my pride and huddled down next to her in the small space.

The door clicked shut, sounding akin to a gun shot in the heavy aired room. Beside me, Soo flinched involuntarily, spurring me to turn her towards me gently, "Soo, everything is going to be alright, but you need to breathe. We can help with your brother but not that function - that's all you."

"No, I've known this was coming for a while now," she swallowed, opening her eyes in shaky resignation, "My story ends here."

I bit my lip and in a surge of anger, whipped around so that I was nearly on top of her, shaking her so as to prompt some sense, "Don't say that! You're not going to die here. Not now, not here, not by some maniac's hands. I know he's your brother, but he's just going to have to live with a sister who is alive and get that wake-up call he had coming for him ten years ago."

She gave a startled look back, perhaps both shocked at my passionate refusal and awed by my resilient hope in an otherwise despairing situation. Not wanting to add to her stress, I slackened my grip but not my determination, "I promise Soo, we're going to get out of this. We're going to make it out alive – all of us, including that derelict brother of yours."

"Even after what he's done?"

I nodded, hoping the light, reassuring tone soothed her; and it did - if you count a minuscule slacking in her shoulders successful. Still I held onto the hope that everything would end up well. No one was dying tonight, so far as I was concerned. But the silence was unnerving, and as time passed by with no indication of a side trumping the other, my faith began to waver. Were they alright?

As if in reply, the sound of drums arose.

* * *

><p>Whoop! Chapter one of two in my double update night! Can I hear an Amen? Cause you know, without God this little miracle was a long way off<br>Thank you! And away to part deux~

By the way, writing about Sherlock's room was really fun :D And that little tidbit about the Sherlock and Mycroft photo came from Moffat by the way. Yep, apparently it is somewhere in Sherlock's room and I'm off for tomorrow to find it. Wish me luck xD

As always, review/fav/follow if you like  
>coughcoughI'mdyingofreviewwithdrawalsyndromeandneedreviewstolivecoughcough<p>

God bless!


	15. BB - The Requiem of Soo Lin Yao

Chapter 15

On March 20th, under the obituary section of the paper, names of the departed will be listed. Among them would be the name of a faithful, compassionate beacon who passionately made the most out of the trash hand she had been dealt with. A wise woman who had a bright future ahead of her – filled to the brim with smiles, happiness, and quite possibly a family of her own making, only to have it veer off to the somber door with a mat in the form of a name printed on the notice page of the news, remembering the life of Soo Lin Yao.

Under that name, a few words would be scribbled by an unsteady hand – the stronger of two that had the will to even come forwards with the announcement if only to respect the departed. It would be a simple message: something that an outsider would frown perplexed at or possibly nod in hazy understanding; something that held worth only to the trio. A way to rewrite the finale of the Hollywood horror into an ending that fits - that changes the signs that were painfully missed if only for a moment to soothe the pain. But that was for the future to handle. As for the present, we'll wipe away the tears and sing of a requiem – the requiem of Soo Lin Yao.

…

My heart pounded in beat with the tribal rhythm echoing off the walls, beside me Soo gave a shaky breath, closing her eyes to ground herself. Not good, definitely not good. If Spidey had the free time to torture us with drumming, then that could only mean one of two very unpleasant things: either he somehow lost Sherlock and John, or got rid of them - and not in the surviving way. For all I knew, we were the only three alive in the place; that meant it was down to me and him in determining Soo's safety.

And I was unarmed. Yeah, not good. I whipped around, desperately searching for anything to use as a weapon - lucky me that we hid in the appraisal room, filled to the brim with potential tools of defense, albeit their heart stopping price tags and rusty wear. Rummaging through, I selected a thin sword meant for the ancient Grecian exhibit. It looked as if in one hard hit it would shatter. Well, I'd just have to end it with a one hit K.O then wouldn't I?

Okay. Weapons – check. Cover? I glanced over at the table John situated us behind. Well, it wasn't bulletproof glass, but it'd have to do. That just left bolting the door. Simple, a walk in the park as things were going. Oh right, that wasn't possible in my life. Nope; far too easy.

My approach to the door cut short at the sight of Zhi Zhu jumping in from an open window, and my breath hitched. How in the-? A _decoy - _the shooter in the museum was a distraction! One realized drastically too late I'm afraid. Sherlock and John were out, leaving Soo alone and practically defenseless - that was their plan. I grimaced, how could we have missed all the signs?

Before he had the chance to notice me, I twirled so that the mountain of artifacts and statues concealed my form. Forcing my breathing to relax and thus keep out of sight, I glanced down at Soo, who looked up from whatever she was doing with wide eyes. A quick glance showed her writing something and my stomach fell at the first thought popping into my head: a farewell letter.

No. That wasn't going to happen. She was just scared and that messed with her judgment. She was going to get out alive – I promised her. Steeling my grip on the hilt of the sword, I took a deep breath to ground myself in preparation for my following actions. Stepping out of the line of cover wasn't my wisest move, but it was far better than giving him the opportunity to secure a spot out of range. Unfortunately, my reveal came a tad early as he stood a good six feet away.

For a moment we stood like a deer caught in headlights – with me having the unfortunate role of the deer staring into the wrong end of a very lethal looking gun. I calculated my options, noting a path that idealistically would get me in range without becoming a sponge. Deciding in that instant it was my only option at that point, I made to execute the plan, which went up in flames as he countered a split second faster. An earsplitting bang akin to a firework going off filled the room, quickly followed by the sword being knocked from my hand. No, wait; more like dropped as the bullet tore a neat streak down my hand.

Searing pain assaulted the appendage, and I quickly tumbled backwards from the force into one of the stools before slumping to the ground with no grace whatsoever. And why should I? I just got shot for Pete's sake. And while we're at it: Owwww. Those stupid western cowboy standoff flicks got it all wrong - getting something knocked from your grasp doesn't go away by flicking your hand. It stays and practically cripples unless you have some mechanical limb; a bright perk of the loss I suppose. And another thing, cutting your palm? Yeah, no genius. Try some other area where a huge chunk of nerves aren't located. Jeez. Morons. Where was I again? Oh, right. Agony.

Groaning, I turned to glare daggers at Zhi Zhu - the only thing I could muster doing while putting pressure on the new scar on my hand. He stared coldly back, probably calculating his options. Bet he didn't count on a witness, and now faced a messy predicament. Glad to have helped in wrecking his plan. May I suggest running into the wall as well?

The barrel of his revolver clicked towards me, punctuating his choice. Witness? Did I say that? No, more like body-bag number two. Shifting tensely, I growled and gave him a defiant look to mask my own inner fear at the all too real gun pointing at my head. No way would my will allow someone like him to kill me, but body wise was another story. It all rested in his aim; one twitch in the wrong direction could prove fatal. Keeping this in mind, I stored my energy for a split second move before he could get the chance when his form was blocked altogether.

"Soo?! What are you-?" I spluttered dumbfounded at her action.

She glanced back and gave me a smile that chilled my bones. No, it wasn't some horror grin; it was one of total acceptance and resignation. One I'd expect to see Katniss give Prim before jumping onto the maniacal Hunger Game bandwagon. One I didn't approve of in the slightest. Honestly, it shouldn't even be called a smile. I don't care if the owner felt at peace and righteous for stepping up, it destroyed all happy thoughts I held and left me in speechless denial.

Without saying a word in English, she revolved back to her brother, exchanging in a small conversation comprised of Chinese dialect. And as luck would have it, I had no idea what the hot topic was about, but had an icy feeling I didn't want to know. From the shifting of the shooter's legs I could tell he was considering whatever Soo was suggesting and quite possibly going for a deal. Well screw that. I don't care what was happening, I rejected any and all negotiations with Mr. Spider.

"Whatever it is you're planning on doing Soo, knock it off. He won't follow through on his end. Why should he even get the benefit of the doubt when he won't even put up resistance against killing his own flesh and blood," I venomously spat at the man. I said that he was getting out alive with us, not that we were to blindly trust him. It was like giving a starving mouse a piece of cheese and telling him not to eat it.

Soo Lin looked back at me, and instantly a wave of sorrow, empathy and willed understanding transferred between us. Alright, I could get the lingering attachment, especially after the orphan background story; but couldn't she see none of that mattered to him? Some people just couldn't be saved no matter what; some had to be stopped. Yet the expression of deep love conveyed made that option fly out the window. Even if it meant going against the world, Soo Lin trusted her brother's word.

"Thank yo-" she started, but I interrupted swiftly.

"No, don't go there. Not now. Not here. You're not sacrificing yourself Soo, I won't allow it!" I snapped, grinding my teeth at my total helplessness in the situation.

Instead of combating my fire, she did as she always had, tempering it with a soft simper, "I will miss that, what did you call it, spunk? It certainly brightened those afternoons."

"Soo-"

"No. You've given me more than I could ever hope for. A new life, new friends, new hope," she interrupted, blinking away a stray tear, "The least I could do is repay my debt."

My eyes widened, breath hitching in my throat while she faced her brother, murmuring, "Tell Andy... Tell him I wish for him the best future. Duo baozhong, Wendy."

I don't even want to recall the torturous click and subsequent fall. It was just too surreal. Surely, it must have been a nightmare, but then the pain in my hand told otherwise. This was the waking world - the cruel, all too real world. Instinctively, I leapt forwards at the sight of Soo's collapse, catching her before she hit ground. Selfishly, I willed her back, wishing for the shot to have miraculously missed, yet knowing all too well that such simply wasn't the case.

As I rocked her back and forth, her essence radiated off, replaced by a clammy cold signature of death that I vainly attempted to shoo away. Movement from across snapped my attention forwards as her brother squatted down and gently placed a lotus origami in one of Soo's outstretched hand, veiling any expressions of his own. That's if the heartless monster had a heart to call his own.

"You better kill me now, or so help me; I won't rest until you've paid for what you've done," I threatened coldly, "You understand?"

We made eye contact, and for a split second I believed a streak of sorrow cross those irises, but I shoved it down as wishful thinking; not even getting a second chance to review the findings as he quickly jumped up and departed, leaving us alone. Or so I thought...

...

John's heart raced as a million thoughts coursed through his mind - all not ending pleasantly. How could he have left them alone with a killer possessing at least two successful murders under his belt. How stupid! Not only did the decision put Soo Lin in danger but Wendy as well, someone he vowed to keep safe in front of her father. Looking presently, such a choice seemed faulty and the soldier had to force away the feelings of guilt. Now was not the time for jumping to conclusions.

Once arriving at the door, he pulled his gun out, leveling it by his side as he slid open the door stealthily. Peering inside, he checked every corner in sight before entering, still on high alert for the killer and the two women. Every fiber of his being pleaded that they would be alright, but after the resounding shot a minute ago he couldn't be certain. From behind, Sherlock joined him, his own eyes keenly scanning the surrounding and giving John some helpful reassurance. When everything checked out okay, they rounded the mountain of artifacts swiftly, only to be startled upon a hoarse voice snarl.

"Don't take another step!"

Tensing at the sudden sound, John instinctively raised his weapon but was prevented in doing so by Sherlock's hand - and rightfully so. Before them lay Wendy, her typical warm gaze now an unstable conflagration as she glared viciously at them, one shaky hand holding out an archaic sword that looked as if it would break at the merest touch. Cradled in her other arm was Soo Lin, a small yet noticeable steak of blood pooling down from her forehead. The soldier heaved a heavy breath. He was too late.

For a moment, the two were uncertain if Wendy, in her rocky mental state, would lash out at them, but after a nerve-racking period her eyes softened as she lowered her defensive stance in recognition, "Oh, it's you..."

Instantly, John's medical side clicked on and he rushed forwards, "Wendy, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"Just my hand..." she rasped, showcasing her left hand smeared red in her own blood trickling out of a nasty looking gash spanning from between her abductor pollicus to her third knuckle. At his touch, she winced, biting back a gasp despite his gentle approach. From the look of things, the injury resulted from a disabling shot by the acrobat, mildly impressing Sherlock at his precision to hit such a narrow target.

While John quietly got to work on cleaning the wound, Wendy lowered her gaze to the woman in her lap, her eyes growing hollow, "Soo... She's dead. I-" The girl trailed off, and for a moment the men believed the arrival of tears would come but astonishingly they did not. Instead, she bit down the emotion and instructed, "We should notify Dimmock. It's about time he pulls his head out from under that rock of his and gets productive."

She made to stand up, delicately setting her friend down on the floor, but John halted her advancement, "We'll take care of the formalities later, as of now you need to rest." When she looked to argue, he firmed his tone, "No. You've just been shot at and are far too emotionally compromised for any further action. We're taking you back to the flat and will deal with the aftermath at a later time. You need sleep - doctor's order."

In spite of her obvious state, the flash of rebellion in her stance reassured him somewhat. Some part of her still remained intact after what he could only describe a devastating last ten minutes. Perhaps he had shock to thank for that, but what would happen once that taut wire broke? John frowned, not liking any of potential scenarios. At any rate, she obediently followed them back to the flat and even consented to lying down on the sofa in their flat under the surveillance of Mrs. Hudson while they popped out to relay the findings to D.I Dimmock. That, coupled with Sherlock surprisingly not reverting to a callous state in pursuit of extracting any details from her, posed nothing short of a miracle to Dr. Watson - a faint glimmer in the darkness.

That night, however, Wendy's fragmented thoughts kept her painfully awake. The people around her seemed to be tip-toeing about, gingerly handling her as if she were some broken artifact. A part of her was infuriated at this, at their wasted effort to pity her in place of searching for Zhi Zhu. But most of all, she pondered her lack of physical evidence of the broken mess inside her. Sure, she choked down the waterworks in purposes of using them to fuel her mission, but she was safe and alone now - notwithstanding Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen behind her turned back - so there was nothing to fear in letting go; especially considering what she lost that night. But none came, not even a burning sensation tinged her eyes. For all her effort to muster a single tear if only to release the pent-up sorrow, she wound up drifting off without a single dampened cheek.

* * *

><p>Whew, emotional chapters. Fun to write but crappy to relate to. I don't know, but Soo Lin's death always reminds me of one of my friend's that happened through suicide. Maybe because both were really sweet and alike, I don't know. But seriously guys, if you're struggling in any way please don't do it. It doesn't help anything or anyone, just makes a tragedy that honestly sucks. I'm serious, if you need to talk about stuff then I'm here with open arms. You know my account as well as the Tumblr and YouTube ones; and I don't care if it's three in the morning here or two in the afternoon - you message me or anyone. Just don't give up, not when you have so much ahead of you.<p>

Well hope you guys like the double update, even though reviews were lacking... But I'll give you some slack on this chapter since I want nothing more than to finish -and alas! I can see the light!

Please review/fav/follow if you like!

God bless, and good night everyone.


	16. BB - A Moment of Change

Chapter 16

An odd smell awoke me that morning. Some miscellaneous combination of dying detergent, patchouli, a hint of orange-honey, and... Was that ammonia? I don't know, but one thing I do know is that my sheets definitely don't smell like whatever this pungent aroma is. Who puts ammonia on their bedding anyhow? Don't they know it isn't exactly compatico with bleach? Hopefully this wasn't white bedding - which brings me back to the central question. Where was I?

Peeping open an eye and blinking to dispel any blurriness and rheum, I shifted over onto my back - pushing away an errant lock. My brow furrowed, this definitely wasn't my room but familiarity remained. How on earth did I end up here - in Sherlock's room of all places? I could only presume John brought me in from the sofa, which was unnecessary since I was sleeping like a babe on it. But seriously, why this room? My flat not good enough? Too far away?

I sighed, pushing away the thoughts and coming to an upright position. Regardless of what prompted them, I should be grateful for their consideration after... After Soo Lin. Giving an exhausted breath, I buried my face in my hands one moment and bit back a yelp the next. A stinging pain sparked from the back of the left mitt - feeling like the child of sunburn and bee's sting. In layman's terms: Ouch.

Once far enough away to examine carefully, I found last night's scar concealed by gauze secured professionally by some medical tape courtesy of John. The pure material spotted a scarlet stain likely resulting from my careless action tearing open whatever progress my body had in clotting. Looks like a changing was in order - so up and out I went.

A sea of books met my startled form. It appeared as if the boys decided to erect a fort out of all the crates spanning the entire room. A mega fort; I should recruit them for a contest, although I doubt we'd get many style points. The things were everywhere, including the sofa. Explains the change in sleeping arrangements.

Poking out among the vast expanse of novels was a tuft of hair bobbing left and right vigorously before a pair of hands ruffled it in frustration. I chuckled at the quirky motion, "Trouble with the design? Perhaps bringing them closer together may yield better results."

Sherlock straightened up and peered back, raising a brow in confusion, "I would ask, but fear such results would prove unproductive."

I shrugged, turning back towards the kitchen without the slightest friction against his comment. It was strange. Under normal circumstances I'd bite at the opportunity to go up against him, yet now no fire burned inside me. Maybe I was coming down with something. Hopefully not the flu - that would definitely put a dampening on my streak without the vaccine. That and there was always the possibility it could turn out to be that sweating disease that kills you in three days. Yikes - time to go buy a gallon of O.J to chug.

"How is your hand?" He inquired after the pause, likely expecting my taking up of the gauntlet as well.

"Better - although I may have torn it open. Where do you keep your first-aid kit?" I said, feeling his sharp gaze trained on me.

"Third draw on your left," he informed, and a simple examination confirmed his words.

"Thanks," I replied, securing the small box and moving towards the table.

Before I could make it there, a form blocked the way while simultaneously snatching the item from my grasp - a feat made easy considering one appendage was temporarily out-of-order. Sherlock plainly took that opportunity and cast a look back at me probably expecting a rise, but only receiving a questioning frown.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping, seeing as you are currently in need of such aid," he responded, opening the kit and retrieving a roll of the wrap.

Was he trying to compensate for last night? A pity driven attempt to make me feel better? I sneered, "I can do it myself, thanks. So stop tip toeing around me like I'm some ticking time bomb. I am _fine_."

"Really?" He raised a dubious brow.

"Yes, now cough it up and back off," I glowered, holding out my hand expectantly; and like the righteous git he was, Sherlock remained as he was, prompting a burst of anger that simpered as I realized such efforts were counterproductive and additionally unconvincing. Sighing, I added, "Seriously, I'm alright. This isn't the first death I've witnessed and it won't be the last. Soo was my friend and even though I'm sad about what happened, I'd rather be productive in solving this mess than slugging around anddishonoring her sacrifice. So despite what you and John may believe, I'm okay now. Really."

"Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?" He murmured, eyes showcasing his lack of faith in my defence.

"Why do _you_ care?"

When my expression turned wary he sighed, "There are no externalities in my motives; I merely wished to avoid witnessing a pitiful attempt at changing bandages employing one hand. Now sit still and let me help before you squander any more time."

I narrowed my eyes but ended up heaving a resigned breath, "Fine." Saves me the effort of fumbling around. It was his decision and time being used up, not mine. He could do whatever the hell pleased him for all I cared.

We sat down as I relinquished my hand to him, astonished at his gentle touch in precisely removing the old wrappings. My stupor broke at the tugging of the hypersensitive area, causing me to flinch away and let loose a pained gasp. His eyes flickered up and grip slackened a bit. The material had mingled with the antibiotic, blood and exuded plasma, fusing with the wound so that the removal tore the remainder of the healing beginnings away. Graciously, Sherlock had enough wit and mercy to remove the last bit quickly so not to drag out the torment; finally revealing the not too appealing sore beneath.

Yeesh, I think I liked it better fresh and without the framing pus. Eww, the human body could be so gross. Ironically, it didn't seem to bother Sherlock as much as it did me. I suppose performing weekly dissections helps build a stomach of steel in that area.

The following splash of water and reapplication of antibiotics stung less that the initial actiom, and before I knew it Sherlock had snipped the end of the wrapping, securing the end with a piece of medical tape. Through the entire process we rested absently in silence, not a word passing between us. There simply wasn't anything to say - although a part of me wondered what the man was thinking of. Every so often I'd catch him stealing a glance, swiftly returning to his task before I could affirm or say anything.

Checking the mobility of my hand, I gingerly flexed my fingers. It was wrapped perfectly - better than the first in fact. Tearing away from the examination I turned towards the man, who currently concentrated on packing up the kit. I watched as he placed it back in the drawer, soundlessly returning to the living room and consequently his work. Through the entire process, my eyes remained tentatively fixed on his form, following his motions in expectation of, I don't know, _something._ But nothing came up. Just silence.

Absentmindedly, I found myself gently rubbing the area where he held my hand - the warm sensation now strikingly cold. Frowning, I turned my focus back inside the kitchen, wondering what to do or say. It was too long a gap to give my gratitude now - I'd only make a fool of myself. So there must be some other way that won't plunge a stake through my pride. I scanned the place until resting on the coffee pot on the counter. Giving a side glance to the adjacent room, I approached said item, giving one last parting look towards the man. It would have to do.

So about seven minutes later, I entered the room with a steaming mug of Joe in one hand and cup of tea in the other - the latter of two on the left for its lesser weight. Sherlock's concentration stayed with the multiple books around him up until I placed the drink on the table in front of him, stating, "So, how's book club going?"

"If you are referring to searching for the book Soo Lin mentioned: inconclusive," he replied, shutting the present book in his hand and reaching for the coffee, "Van Coon and Lukis must possess the same treatise, therefore I've sought out every parallel in their collections - narrowing in on the first word of the fifteenth page as directed by the cipher. But as I said before, the results have proven less than satisfactory."

Sherlock gave the liquid a sniff, looking skeptically into the dark depths and thus prompting me to chuckle, "Just take a sip - it's not poisoned."

The man gave a mild snort, but complied just the same; pulling back with a very mildly impressed gleam that sent a wave of relief through me. Good, I guessed right on the specifics. Whew. I could never remember whether it was Sherlock or John who took sugar in his coffee - the pains of having one liking only cream and the other only sugar. That and the correct amount. Thank goodness for the default being two.

"I take it you and John have been up all night doing this?" I stated more than asked.

He nodded, replacing the cup back on the table, "Up until vocation summoned John away."

"Yeesh," I sipped my tea, "That sounds terrible. Do you think he'll be alright going to work with barely a wink of sleep?"

"From the stage he occupied at his departure, I'd wager a no. Performing insipid tasks following no rest, added with John's own shortfall in remaining awake for long periods of time suggest he has unwittingly fallen asleep in the last half hour," Sherlock shrugged, wholly unconcerned about his flatmate's condition or employment status, "I did warn him of the burden brought forth from a job; he should have listened and refrained from pursuing such a mundane goal."

"Oh lay off, he's only trying to help pay the rent like any loyal roommate. Let him do what he wants," I said, taking a sip of the aromatic liquid. Earl Grey. Yum. "Besides, I agree with John. Having a career is beneficial - not a detrimental. It allows him to get out and do something with his own abilities - and perhaps meet someone while he's at it."

"Dull," he muttered.

"No; productive," I shot back, "Which begs the question: Why are you looking through each individual book? Wouldn't it be simpler to make a list of common pieces? It would save the effort of searching since you're bound to possess it as well; all you would need to do is solve the riddle: What book does everyone have?"

Blinking in surprised acknowledgement of my proposition, he jumped towards the bookshelf, pulling out an assortment of classics and common sights. I shook my head, "Did you really not think of that? My goodness. How left-brained of you - to consider only the details when the whole brings about a more efficient solution."

"It has proven worthwhile thus far," he argued halfheartedly, tossing a few inconclusive novels aside, "There is always opportunity for some stray event to alter results - that doesn't specifically beseech a requirement for change."

"True, but thinking out of the box never hurts," I set my cup down next to his, "Now scooch over so I can help solve this riddle a bit quicker."

...

By the time John returned, both of us were at odds and ends, grasping at straws at coming up with a lead. I thought taking a break would help, but apart from giving my hair a much needed washing and my clothes an equally necessary change (Of course I had to wear a white coat the other night and now the minute yet noticeable bloodstain on the sleeve wouldn't come out – ending the life of another good article of clothing and not helping my relationship with Soo's brother in the slightest), the intermission held no fecundity.

"How was work?" I asked as the doctor poked his head in the room to check if we were still alive, "Better than this mess I'd hope."

"In a way," he replied as Sherlock tossed another book aside, still determined to find the item, "How-?"

"Is my hand? Fine," I finished, showcasing the appendage, "Sherly helped with patching up while you were out."

"Eh, good," he smiled stiffly, adjusting his stance.

Almost instantly I saw through the nagging question he meant to ask but was ultimately interrupted and dying fast. Sighing, I rose to return to my flat since any further assistance was ostensibly unnecessary, "Yes, I'm fine in that respect as well – though would prefer not to talk about it presently."

John blinked and made to say something but came short as I brushed past him downstairs. Truthfully, I was worried that should I speak about Soo it would only confirm what I struggled to come to terms with - finishing off with a tear fest I by far didn't want to have in front of the boys. I couldn't afford it, not with Zhi Zhu and this Shan character on the loose. Now was the time for action; mourning would have to come later.

Once the door to my flat clicked shut, I found myself staring absentmindedly at the space. What was I doing again? Ugh. It was like going to the pantry to nab a snack only to forget what you were doing upon arriving, return to as you were before and smack your head while your stomach is just like 'Uh... Forgetting something?' Probs - and my current predicament until I pulled out my phone to see I'd missed three calls from Andy.

Inherently, I cringed. He must have heard from the police by now about what happened and wanted to know the finer details. A majority of my being vehemently opposed the prospect of returning his calls, but I dialed up his number anyways. Andy was a friend of both Soo and myself. Of everyone, he deserved to know all that occurred. I just hoped he would be able to handle it with more success than myself. Perhaps sitting down would be a good move.

"Wendy?"

Oh gosh... His voice sounded terrible - all raspy and drained like he was between fighting off pneumonia and smoker's lung. There was no doubt now; he knew and was taking it real hard. My own demeanor diminished at the sound. It's a good thing that I chose to sit down on the sofa.

"Hey," I tried to sound supportive and failed miserably, "You doing alright?"

"You want the truth? No, not at all," he paused and I could hear him setting down a glass in the background, "They've given us the day off - with the investigation and whatnot. So I've just been hanging out. My brother's in town, so he stopped by to stay the night."

Good, that meant he wasn't alone. Sure took a chunk of stress off my back. The last thing I needed was to see another friend go down.

"Hey Wendy?" he began again.

"Yeah?"

"Last night... Was Soo Lin..." he trailed off and a lump caught in my throat at his struggling to maintain composure, "Did she suffer?"

Of course; he knew we were there that evening - likely from the authorities or strong suspicion after John and Sherlock's request. How I wished to just hang up then and there. Death was bad enough on its own; in some ways worse for the ones left behind than the departed.

Nothing came out for the longest time and a heavy silence hung over us before I mustered the strength to answer, "No. It was quick."

"G-Good," he sighed, breath hitching slightly.

"Andy, I'm so sorry. I know how much she meant to you and to think that it would end like this..." I grimaced, "I couldn't save her - it was all down to me and I failed."

My head sunk at the overriding thought in my mind. Guilty, remorseful and self-scrutinizing statements were all I could hear within. I should've done this or that - just _something_ different, and with that simple altercation Soo Lin would have walked out alive. But no matter what, it didn't change reality: I broke my promise and had to face the repercussions of the fall.

"Don't blame yourself," Andy's soft tone startled me, "There was nothing you could have done; and if Soo Lin was here now she'd say the same. She wouldn't want us to waste our lives mourning and wondering what went wrong. She'd want us to live on and be happy."

A faint smile lit my face, "Yeah, she would wouldn't she?"

"Definitely," he agreed, giving a breath before continuing, "The director spoke of transferring some of us to a partner museum outside of Rome a few days back. I think I'm going to take her up on that offer."

I stopped short at his sudden revelation, but recovered and spoke softly, "T-That's great Andy!"

"Yeah. I just thought it would be a good place to start over - not that I don't want to see you or anything! I just-"

"It's alright, I understand. Too many painful memories around here, I get it," I stopped him, "I'm glad for you - honestly."

"I won't stay there forever," he amended, although relief was clear in his voice at my acceptance, "I'll come up to visit some time."

"You better!" I chuckled, "Christmas or New Year's Eve or something once you've settled down enough - and don't be late."

"It's a deal," he agreed, tone thankfully lightening up before mellowing some, "Thank you Wendy, for everything."

"No problem. Just make sure to brush up on your Italian a bit alright? Don't want to mix it up with Greek or Macedonian this time around," I smiled.

"I will, don't worry," he gave a small laugh.

My own vibrance dulled a little as I finished, "Take care Andy. Give me a call if you need anything."

"Yeah; will do," he replied, equally sober, "Goodbye Wendy."

"Until next time," I murmured and the other end hung up, leaving me alone in the dusk filled flat.

Well that wasn't nearly as bad as I expected; a little piece of solace even settled in my heart at the friendly exchange. Still, the upcoming formalities didn't bode with such promise, dampening the small spark. That and the underlying thought that a friendship I'd thought would last forever was now in shambles - leaving few hands to pick up the pieces. Yes, I understood Andy's need to escape and slightly envied his ability to do so -he being free to leave while I found myself suddenly tied down in the country with no way out - but I still didn't want to see him go. Everything seemed to get heavy at that moment, and down my head went into my hand once again with an elbow propped up on the arm of the furniture.

"You look execrable," Sherlock's voice sounded.

"And you forgot to knock again - why am I not surprised?" I growled, closing my eyes wearily.

Beside me, the cushion sunk slightly in indication of his settling down, "Fixating on the past will only prove unpleasant and forbearing."

"I know, I know," I sighed, opening my eyes slightly, "I just wish I could let it out already and be done with it. But no matter what I do, it just won't come - or at least at a suitable time."

He frowned, "I did not take you for one to concern herself with social image."

I shrugged, "And you were just as wrong as myself in adolescence. No one can fully say that they don't care what others think of them - that would be a flat-out lie. Even the most disconnected people have an ounce of regard to their own appearance. It's just how we are, and will always be; but that doesn't necessarily entail it is something to look down upon. Self-image possesses the same importance as most virtues. In moderation of course. No need for a world of self-righteous prats."

When I raised my head to look at him, his own introspective attention focused on a point resting on the table in front of us. I let the quiet descend, for once not bothered by his presence in my lodgings. It felt... good - not to be alone that is.

"So, I presume you're hungry after a day's worth of looking for the cipher," I spoke up, approaching the kitchen, "And since I'm feeling particularly generous, I'll offer dinner. What would you prefer? Soup, leftover spaghetti, takeout?"

"No need," he responded, "We're going out tonight. The fresh air will do us both some good."

"Both?" I frowned, "Is John staying in?"

"No, but we'll be meeting up shortly," Sherlock answered, tossing me my grey trench before walking out the door without even bothering to hear me consent or not.

Arrogant git. Still, I couldn't repress a smirk at his typical behaviour in place of the toned down one of everyone else. He either didn't care or believed in my statement before - I didn't stop to mull it over. Instead, I turned to nab a couple of mittens and scarf while shoving on a pair of boots. Whether or not his motives were for my well-being, he held a good point. The musky air wasn't doing any good and I really needed to stretch my legs. Walking a few meters downstairs just wasn't cutting it.

"You coming?" Sherlock poked his head out, curls bouncing at the action.

"Yeah, just a moment," I called. Pulling up a boot one-handedly is far harder than it looks.

"Are you done?" he said not even a second later.

"Patience!" I snapped, finally completing the task and huffing as I walked out the door to see him ready with coat and scarf secure, "Sheesh, haughty and demanding. Did you learn nothing as a child?"

"Three languages, the anatomy of all mammals both extinct and alive, a mastering of fencing, and how to create a working engine with common domestic items," he listed off the accomplishments, "Didn't seem to have the time or interest for such trivialities."

My mouth hung in a mix grin-gape, and he gave a smug look - energizing my recovery, "Shut up. Don't we have some place to be going to?"

* * *

><p>And here's chappie 16! A gift seeing as I'm in remarkably awesome spirits after a story I adore just updated today~ You guys should all thank 42believer and totally check out her epic work. I warn you - it is extremely addicting, so expect late nights full of laughs.<p>

Also, behold the microscopic beginnings of intentional fluff! No, it won't be prevalent in the upcoming chapters. It's more like the tiny tiny tiny tiny chip in the overriding damn holding back the fluff. But if you squint you can see the light if that's the sort of thing you're looking for in this fic c;

As always, review/fav/follow if you like!  
>God Bless!<p>

Oh! And a bit of a disclaimer here: I like to use the transcript to construct most of my dialogue and per request of the compiler, I'm acknowledging her aid in making this story possible. Thank you Ariane DeVere! [You can find her work by simply searching the episode title with the word 'transcript' at the end]


	17. BB - Why You Shouldn't Go to the Circus

Chapter 17

"Let go you stubborn clod!" I yelled, desperately trying to free my arm from his grasp – going so far as to enlist the aid of the nearby street lamp for support, and even then facing trouble since my arm had to wrap around it in place of an out-of-order hand.

"You do realise how puerile your actions appear," Sherlock struggled back, using his other arm to balance my handicap advantage, "Your consternation is a nettlesome hindrance. Just get over your kirkophobia already!"

He had a point. By now, a small crowd of bystanders had gathered, some of which sporting camera phones. Figures. Can't wait to see the comments on those photos, especially considering the position we were in. It literally looked as if we had jumped out of a silly cartoon – playing tug-o-war with my arm being the unfortunate rope. At this rate I could only expect it to lengthen considerably more than the other. A shame – but necessary sacrifice all the same.

"No!" I refused, pulling myself closer to the metal object, "And it's not kirkophobia moron!"

"Oh? Then what has so effectively put you off?" he growled, staggering closer an inch from my efforts. Success! Or at least until he dug his heels in and regained the lost ground.

"One word: Clowns," I punctuated each word with a yank.

"Coulrophobia then? How absurd. What about a jester could possibly frighten you this unreasonably?"

"Oh come on, you can't honestly expect me to believe you aren't at least a _bit_ creeped out by those freaking monsters," I huffed, "What, with those insincere, slasher grins? And their laughs? Ugh," I groaned, shuddering at the mere thought, "No. You can go get eaten for all I care. I want to live thank you."

"You're acting childish and inanely perverse over a petty matter," Sherlock spat angrily, giving a sharp tug that nearly got me.

"And you're idiotically fighting a losing battle but are too freaking blind to see it," I growled, swinging my leg out to kick him off, "So let me give you a wake-up call: LET GO!"

Infuriatingly, he managed to dodge every attack even at the close proximity, ending by snatching my final burst in one hand – forcing me to stumble away from my grip on the lamppost or risk face planting. Hopping on one foot, I glowered as he gave a smug look. Nope. On no circumstances would I let him win.

In a flick of my foot, my boot was dislodged, making Sherlock fumble backwards. Success, I cheerfully thought; overlooking his present grip on my hand that pulled me along with him. The moment's confusion lasted long enough for him to make his move with the aid of momentum brought about by the stumbling; and before I knew it, I was on top of his shoulder staring dumbfounded while the night's crisp chill licked at my toes.

"There, much better," he gave a breath, adjusting me to a more comfortable position at my expense, "Shall we go now?"

"No, we shouldn't," I spat, kicking my legs fruitlessly, "It's stupid and pointless and not my problem."

"I disagree. Your phobia has progressed far beyond a natural fear. It is only logical to proceed in curing such anxiety while a faint hope remains."

"The only 'hope' I see is getting off your blasted shoulder," I retorted, "Now put me down!"

"Well, one problem at a time. As for now, let us face your fears," he plainly said, beginning to walk down the street towards the accursed destination.

But I didn't want to face my fears; not when they consisted of the maniacal, homicidal, razor-toothed creatures that parents idiotically send their children to. Had they no brain whatsoever? Who lets a complete stranger with a balloon fetish hang out with their kid? In all truth though, coulrophobia was a strong word – more like extreme discomfort and urge to knock any poor, red-nosed sod out if he got too close. So really, there was no need for me to go and inflict unnecessary pain on my emotional state.

Unfortunately, nothing I could say or do would hold any sway over Sherlock, so I resorted to flailing my legs and making myself as undesirable as humanly possible. Oh, I _really_ hope some devious blogger isn't out there taking pictures – or worse yet a video. I might as well kiss all dignity aside should that happen, but currently that was a risk worth taking.

"Lemme go! Lemme go! Lemme go! Lemme go!" my voice didn't lose a beat or decibel as I yelled in the man's ear, causing his head to wince away slightly.

"What was that?" he asked with such normality it added gasoline to the fire.

"You know damn well," I spat, "Put me down. I'm not going to some haunted circus filled to the brim with those demons."

"'Haunted'? 'Demons'? Has fear driven you to such ludicrous jumps in logic? There exist no such things – a figment of your imagination, nothing more."

"Tell me that after you visit Connecticut," I shot back, "And my phobia is perfectly sound."

"Oh? And how do you suppose to prove that?" he innocently inquired.

"Simple. Clowns are the spawn of Satan. Need I elaborate more?"

Sherlock chuckled, taking pleasure in my discontent, "I'm afraid personal opinions do not count as applicable evidence. Your irrational displeasure likely stems from watching far too many dramatized horror films centered around clowns – of them, Stephan King's version taking dominance."

"Well you're wrong there doofus; I've never read or seen any of that particular brand of media – and don't plan to. Heck, I broke tradition in skipping over the circus themed Halloween Horror Nights a few years back on the very principle that clowns are unnatural savages."

"So I take it an early childhood trauma to be the source. How like you to have persisted in it for so long."

I made the sound of a buzzer, "Wrong again Sherly. I didn't care for them in my youth – in fact I poked fun at a classmate for his phobia until realizing he was a freaking genius and we were the idiots. Lessons learned I suppose."

"Ah, that entails you're not afraid but merely desire to refrain from the painful exposure of your hypocritical claims. Now you are beginning to make sense."

"Shut up; and while you're at it, put me down!" I squirmed, commencing my fight once more but ultimately too late. The blasted man had effectively subdued my struggle long enough to arrive at the cursed location.

"What was that? I'm afraid I couldn't discern what you said. Perhaps a more considerate tone would yield more favourable results," he smirked.

"Pretty please let me down sir," I said in a sickeningly sweet voice, "Because it would be an oh so terrible tragedy for you to find yourself decapitated should I remain as I am much longer."

"Unlikely; the force required to decollate someone is beyond your ability considering your brawn and angle. Care to revise your statement?"

"Put me down this instant or I swear I'll start ripping out your hair until you're bald and then, if you're still content with continuing this ridiculous display, I'll bite your ears off – and that won't take any effort at all," I warned.

"Oh dear, still rambling on. At this rate your current place proves more beneficial – prompting me to deny any protests, for your own well-being of course," he replied in mock concern; a smirk clearly lit his features.

"Sherlock!" I flailed angrily, invoking a chuckle to reverberate up his form into mine, "Just quit it already!"

"Do you promise not to make any attempts at leaving the premises for the duration of our visit?" he asked.

"What? Are you serious?" I said techily.

"Well?" he shot back, and I held no doubt that regardless of what I did, I was going to this circus. The only choice in the matter I held was whether it was atop his shoulder or, more comfortably, on the ground – and the answer was an obvious one. We both knew that. The jerk.

"Fine, I promise not to run off. Now put me down already," I growled, feeling him lean down a bit and lift me off his shoulder.

He set me down and I glared at him, snatching my boot from his other hand and shoving it on my numb foot, "So where's the circus? I don't see any lights or carnival rides anywhere."

"If you had paid attention earlier you would know that this isn't a traditional event," he nonchalantly rebutted, gesturing behind me, "Take a look for yourself."

I obliged and immediately groaned at the sight of the place, "Oh no; this is much worse. Some sketch, rundown building? Why not invite Mr. Ripper so he can see his new home?"

"Calm down. With any luck this shouldn't be too terribly extensive," he passed off my comment, beginning towards the building; which meant I had to follow. Suddenly I empathized all too well with Shaggy and Scooby. At least the Chinese lanterns were pretty.

Inside the dilapidation spread, with paint chipping off walls and creaky floorboards all around. The place must've been abandoned or something – maybe a really bad storm at the sight of mold in the corner. All in all, I didn't have high hopes for the night; which begs to ask: Why were we here in the first place? Obviously not to sit back and watch a couple of acrobatic-

"You think they're here," I realized as we traveled up a flight of stairs, "The Black Lotus."

"Took you long enough," he replied and I puffed my cheeks up in indignation, ready to defend myself when a familiar voice interrupted.

"Oh, no. I think that's an error. We only booked two," we turned the corner to see John and a friend of his at the counter, giving the box office manager a quizzical look.

When Sherlock spoke, I could see John's body give off a visible moan, "And then I phoned back and got two more."

The pair stared at us, John with semi-veiled annoyance and his friend with unhampered curiosity. Now I may have been out of it as of late, but it didn't take sociopathic prowess to see what we had just walked in on. Our friend's strained smile told everything.

Scowling at Sherlock, I copied John's disappointment. I couldn't believe him. We weren't just going out to potentially dismantle a smuggling group - we were crashing a date. In all, _not_ how I wanted to spend my evening. I'd almost opt for clowns in exchange.

At any rate, once the awkward introductions passed, the girl, who introduced herself as Sarah, and I took a minute to escape from the tense atmosphere around the boys and freshen up a bit in the restroom – where I had the unfortunate task of explaining how, despite appearances, this was not a double date, while simultaneously begging for forgiveness and promising a vigilant revenge on Sherlock. Thankfully, she was very forgiving and let it go, making me like her instantly.

Finished, we walked out onto yet another wonderful example of bad timing, as John none too delicately proclaimed his hopes for the night; right as we walked up the steps. The poor guy's face looked petrified at Sarah's presence but he really shouldn't be too worried. From the short time we spent in the loo, I think he stood a very good chance even after that little moment.

Still, I couldn't suppress a chuckle as we walked on past the boys, "Smooth."

John grimaced but followed up after us anyway. Once inside, the room opened up immensely. There still remained much to be improved sanitary wise – thank goodness my tetanus shots were updated – but something about the place just captured a sense of archaic beauty. Enough to get me and most of the crowd staying put for the show to begin, that is.

Oddly enough, the stage was left as is – replaced by a simple circle of candles which the small audience gathered around. They must not have expected a large turn-up rate since we barely managed to pose a sizeable enough crowd to encircle the mock-stage. That or they were possible clients of the trade, should Sherlock's theory prove correct. Or, perhaps, they limited the number of tickets and thus potential witnesses so that they could feed us to nimble, cannibalistic clowns. Okay, that was a bit farfetched. Don't judge; I was still on edge with my heart-stopping conviction not even an hour ago.

"You said this was a circus. This is not a circus – look at the size of this crowd," John murmured over his shoulder to Sherlock, grimacing at the next part, "Sherlock this is…art."

"And what, pray tell, is so bad about that?" I said in a hushed tone, raising a brow. He sighed exasperatedly, as I turned to the other, who was currently looking up at the visible rafters, "But he does have a point. This isn't a circus – at least not your everyday tightrope and trapeze one. Can't say I expect much with the rundown state this place is in. They must've gotten paid to perform in here."

"This is not their day job," Sherlock replied quietly over his shoulder.

"No, sorry, I forgot. They're not a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers," John muttered, Sarah giving a side glance at our little powwow. I felt a bit rude, making her an odd sort of fourth wheel in our tricycle conversation, so I leaned away from the huddle just in time to hear an eerily familiar rhythm.

Literally every hair on my body rose, accompanied by the ever faithful goose pimples. This beat… It couldn't possibly- But John's own recognition proved it. It was the same from the other night at the museum. So they were here, right behind the curtains! I shuddered, things just got a whole lot more intense, and I raced to find a strategy; going so far to ignore the smug look Sherlock gave. It was only later that I found my thoughts interrupted by a whoosh and sickening thud that caused a good third of the room to jump ten feet in the air.

There were suddenly performers in the ring of candles; odd, I must have zoned out. Anyhow they were beginning to set up another stunt, with a man willingly having himself chained to the board impaled not even a second ago. Sherlock took the opportunity to explain, but my focus was set on the ringleader with the pink-themed robes and make-up; who was giving a really intense stare our way.

Fidgeting uncomfortably under the attention, I side glanced to the left and right to see if anyone else noticed – but they were all captured by the performance, eyes wide in apprehension as the man fought to free himself in time. I bit my lower lip nervously; she was still looking in our direction. Didn't she know it was impolite to stare? But what at?

I turned to see part of our group missing. Where did that idiot run off to? I shook my head; that was his problem, which ideally wouldn't infect us for the time being. Now, I was much too preoccupied in tracing the woman's laser eyes, winding up at the target of Dr. Watson. John? I gave a double take between the two points. Why him? Did she fancy him or something? I snickered at the thought, just in time for the stuntman to dodge a lethal arrow.

"Found that entertaining?" John raised a brow.

"Oh, that? No, no. Just an amusing thought," I waved away his curiosity, "That guy was amazing – stupid, but amazing."

"Not what you'd expect from his occupation huh?" John murmured, "The woman over there didn't even flinch at his struggle. For all she knew, he could have been killed."

"Why should she? They commit international crime for a living. What that guy did now is no different than his everyday life," I shrugged, "But enough of that. Let's actually try to enjoy a bit of the show before your roommate comes back. Gives you a chance with her," I winked, nodding my head to Sarah, who clapped happily along with the rest of the audience before the ringleader raised a hand for silence.

"Well, you have a point there," he gave a small smile, returning his attention to his date.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she leaned her head forwards as if telling an ancient legend over the fire, "From the distant, moonlit shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure: the deadly Chinese bird-spider."

At the final word, I found myself instinctually stiffening. Spider – translated in Chinese to Zhi Zhu. Soo's brother. The one who killed her. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? The Black Lotus was definitely in the building, in that I held little doubt. But was this acrobat the same one?

All I had was a gut feeling, and it proved more than enough to prompt me into action. Leaning over, I whispered, "John. I think that's-"

I didn't have the opportunity to finish as Sherlock made his grand entrance, flying out of the curtains to land painfully on the floor. John and I gave each other astonished glances before jumping into action right as the assailant made an appearance of his own, intent on finishing whatever started between them while his victim was still winded and recovering from impact. While John took the straightforward approach of tackling the man before he could harm our friend, I nabbed one of the deadly arrows from the podium, ready to aid when the current performer tore off his mask in shock at the show that dutifully stole his act and scared away the majority of onlookers and performers – including the pink ringleader. So much for loyalty and support.

My mouth hung shamelessly open, and I found my grip tightening on the arrow. There was no mistaking it now – he _was_ Zhi Zhu. My blood began to boil as all the pent-up anger for his crimes came to my head. He needed to be caught – and I'd be more than willing to fulfill that need, if only to be interrupted by a pained gasp.

John had been knocked away by the attacker's precise kick, struggling to catch his breath as Sarah's attempt to rush over to the men backfired with the two colliding and collapsing to the ground. Shaking off whatever blows the soldier gave him, the attacker returned his attention to Sherlock, who hadn't managed to get up in the time allotted. What was he thinking?! Move Sherlock!

Movement in my peripheral vision tore my pounding heart back to Zhi Zhu, who was currently sprinting away from the chaos, wanting no part in it whatsoever. I ground my teeth, the coward; and was moments from pursuit when John's call stopped me, "Sherlock!"

Spinning around, I saw the warrior donned in Chinese armor above the named, posed to plunge a nasty blade into him. My attention flickered back and forth between the situations, conflicted as to what I should do. Right now was likely the only chance I had at bringing justice to Zhi Zhu and avenging Soo's death; and oh, did I not desire that more than anything. But if I chose that, then harm would undoubtedly befall Sherlock. Was I willing to put his well-being in jeopardy?

Letting loose a cry of anguish at my dilemma, I leapt forwards, striking down the man in my path. Luckily, my anger and moral conflict fueled the attack enough so that he was down in one hit, rolling over in pain. A bit of sweetness for the overriding bitterness welling up inside me. I looked back, grimacing. Zhi Zhu was gone.

Groans from below alerted me to Sherlock, who sat up painfully. Lowering myself to support him, I grinned, "That's three times in less than a week buddy, next time I'll have to charge."

He gave no comment; instead, quickly turning to pluck the shoe off of his assailant, revealing the tell-tale mark of the Tong. With that confirmed, we struggled to our feet in time for the armored man to begin groaning awake. While Sarah helped John, I offered my support to Sherlock – both of us helping the men up and away from the inevitable fight should we stick around any longer. Before we left, I gave one last glance at the place, glowering at the missed chance to catch the culprit but happy nonetheless at not losing a friend that night.

…

We arrived back at Baker Street a few hours later that night, in varying moods: Sherlock frowning still from Dimmock's biting comments and rejection of further aid after the failure to catch a single smuggler - which, for once, I sided perfectly with the man. It wasn't our fault the world was working against us, and the blame in failing to apprehend the group fell on the police, not us. John rested between the same level of irritation and worry over Sarah's thoughts on the night; my own annoyance was dulled by the exhausting events of the day; while Sarah's eyes, on the other hand, still brimmed with the effects of endorphins from the chaotic night.

Meanwhile, her date grimaced at the failure of an ideal night out but gave some humour regardless, "Hope you enjoyed your evening."

"Just another date," Sarah shrugged, trying not to let him beat himself up anymore than he already had as they continued to the flat above.

"Damn," John chuckled, "And I wanted to make it memorable. Want anything to eat?"

Their voices trailed off as I turned to enter my own flat, bent on doing nothing else than sleeping after the rollercoaster ride of a day. But a hand wrapped around my elbow, stopping my retreat, "You're not coming up with us?"

I sighed, "Not tonight Sherly. I've had enough ciphers, smugglers, and fights to last a lifetime let alone a single day. I'm going to bed." I moved to continue but once again found his grip firm. Frowning, I looked at him expectantly, narrowing my eyes, "What? You're not going to swing me over your shoulder again are you? Cause believe me, things won't go the same as last time."

"No," he shook his head, surprising me as he let go of my arm, "I have no intention of towing you upstairs."

"Well, then what do you want?" I folded my arms.

He frowned, considering his words, "You saved me."

"Yeah? What of it?"

"You had the opportunity to apprehend Zhi Zhu, I saw it. But despite all instinct telling otherwise, you gave it up, knowing that another chance of that proportion stood extremely improbable," he titled his head, thoroughly confused, "Why did you give it up?"

"It's not like I could just leave while that guy was about to kill you," I frowned, "Did you honestly think capturing Soo's killer meant so much to me that I'd leave you to die?" When Sherlock gave no response I breathed, resting a hand on his shoulder and smiling, "Look, I very well could have chosen to pursue Zhi Zhu, but I didn't. As unlikely as it seems, I'll get another shot later; which isn't the case for someone as annoying, danger-prone, and pompous as you. I figured saving you was more worthwhile than catching some crook."

"I see," he murmured, turning away to return to his flat.

"What? No thank you?" I called after him, a grin lighting my face. Like I expected anything less from the man.

Shortly after, I stepped down into 221c, heaving a sigh of relief to be back home. Although things didn't work out in a particularly flawless way, it turned out acceptable enough to celebrate over leftover spaghetti. So while I stuck it in the microwave to heat up, I found myself humming a childhood tune to pass the time, faintly hearing a door close in the distance. Sherlock must be up and out again – the Energizer bunny. At least then Sarah and John could afford some much deserved alone time.

_Beep! Beep!_ Looks like dinner's ready. I smiled, stomach rumbling in anticipation. My hand had just touched the open button of the machine when a sickening thud resounded in the hall. I stopped, replaying the sound over in my head and not liking the conclusions I was drawing. Obviously someone had fallen and my heart skipped a beat at the thought of the victim being Mrs. Hudson. She already had a bad hip – no need for added injuries.

Abandoning the meal to my belly's objections, I stepped out into the hallway, or rather awkward moment number two. Two darkly dressed men whipped their heads back at my arrival, and in their hands were an unconscious John sporting a nasty head wound and a half-conscious Sarah, whose mouth was secured shut by a piece of black fabric torn from one of the intruders' outfits.

"Uh… I'll just be going back now. Sorry to interrupt," I laughed nervously, turning to leave and bumping into a chest abruptly. Or not. Looking up, my stomach dropped at the sight of a third invader pull back a hand in preparation to disable me as well.

Pursing my eyes closed, I braced for a painful impact. This was not good. Definitely _not_ good.

* * *

><p>And there's a chapter 17. Hope you enjoyed Wendy's not clowniphobia and all~ Honestly, it was kind of fun to write and sort of poke fun at my own aversion of the horrible things. No offence to people who like clowns, but I literally have to be on the otherwise of the room from one or it's bad. Like, I nearly broke down at a scare house when on walked towards us. I think the only clown I've ever liked is Allen from DGM and the Cirque du Soleil ones - which are more like mimes than clowns in all actuality.<p>

Review/fav/follow if you like c;

God Bless!


	18. BB - The Better Option

Chapter 18

Fire burned spasmodically from within a rundown barrel, dimly illuminating the cavernous room. Water drips precariously from the ceiling – some droplets falling on the worn tram tracks, some sizzling in the blaze, and others on the occupants. One in particular being John, prompting his arousal to the waking world.

Groaning, the soldier felt a pounding pressure steaming from his head, accompanied by an all too familiar warm sensation of blood. Hazily, he straightened up to get a better look at his surroundings; stiffening at the unknown and known. Beside him, Sarah gave a glance, barely able to hold back tears at the group surrounding them. A rush of protective anger coarser through him at the faint bruises along her form and brash gagging. Instinctively, he went to move towards the woman and thus relinquish half the aggravation, but like her, he found himself bound tightly to a chair.

Looking forwards, he growled at the sight of three silhouettes – coming closer to reveal their identities, while a fourth remained greatly obscured by an object shrouded from view. The first was unmistakably the same short, squat, yet muscular armoured man that he had fought not even a few hours ago, causing John to give a bitter grin; ready for round two with the bloke. On the other side stood a tall and wiry man with jagged and pointed features – the exact description Sherlock gave for Zhi Zhu. So two familiar faces, now as for the third.

Dressed in a long black coat and tinted sunglasses despite the dark surroundings, was a woman whom John held the feeling he had seen before. Unfortunately, the trauma induced by the concussion resulted in a blurred memory. He could only guess that she was the opera-singer-like presenter of the acts in the circus.

"A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket," she greeted, causing John to wince as he struggled to look up at her under the tight restraints. Placing the glasses atop her head, she finished, "Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes."

John blinked, running through the words once again before replying, still somewhat delirious, "Huh? What?" He looked at her quizzically, "No; I'm not Sherlock Holmes."

The woman smiled, not buying his words for an instant despite their validity, "Forgive me if I do not take your word for it."

She reached forwards and none too gently procured his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket, brushing across fresh sores from his previous fight. Without a shred of concern – although why would she, being a criminal and all – she rifled around the inside, much to John's displeasure. Had it been a normal thief, he'd let it go by giving the delinquent the pitiful amount of cash stored inside; but these were no petty criminals. They were on par to those infamously remembered in history texts, already having three murders _at least_ under their belt and likely two more if he didn't play his cards carefully.

"Debit card," she glanced down at him, "In the name of S. Holmes."

Strike one. John sighed, "Ah, that's not actually mine. He lent that to me."

Unsurprisingly, she wasn't convinced, especially when the second strike came up, "A cheque for five thousand pounds. Made out in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Frowning, he weakly explained, "Yeah, he asked me to look after that for him."

His heart was beginning to beat faster, forcing him to close his eyes and focus on breathing. The increased circulation certainly was doing a number on his already sore head, and didn't help the slightest in the current situation. He had to calm down and think. Faith in Sherlock and Wendy told him they would locate them, but until then he needed to keep cool and alive long enough for his friends to find them alive.

Unfortunately, with her final rummaging, the woman produced strike three, "Tickets from the theatre collected by you, name of Holmes," raising her brows intently at the name.

"Yes. Ok. I realise how this looks; but honestly, I'm not-"

"We heard it from your own mouth," the woman interrupted, squashing John's efforts into a bewildered stare, "'I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone'."

"Did I really say that?" John chuckled sullenly, remembering the scene he made outside Soo Lin's flat. He lowered his head, inwardly berating himself for losing his temper at the moment that seemed so trivial at the time. Now Sherlock's comment on minor details being important made sense. Shame it had to come at a time like this, when he realised any attempt on his part would prove hopeless. "I suppose there's no point in persuading you I was doing impressions-"

Unexpectedly, just as he glanced back up at the woman, John found a small revolver pressed cruelly against his temple. He squirmed, anxiously breathing deeply. This was not good; not good at all. He silently sent a prayer up that Sherlock and Wendy would arrive soon, before things ended bloodily.

"Sherlock Holmes – you're my pin-up. Did you know?" she grinned, showcasing her phone in which dozens of photos of the doctor were displayed. John shuddered, finally being able to empathize with Wendy when she complained of all the many photographs taken of her. "You're friend John writes a fascinating blog – I read it every day. I've made an intricate study of you. But you – you know nothing about your most devoted fan."

John frowned, not knowing whether or not to feel grateful for the praise of his misidentified writing skills or disturbed by the fact that Sherlock had gained such popularity where criminal masterminds were exploiting John's own blog to research him. Things greatly took a turn for the worse. Before, he believed all would be well, as in some idealistic movie or T.V show; but now it was all too clear. Like Mycroft said, walking with Sherlock Holmes meant going on the battlefield - and where there's fighting, there is undoubtedly injuries and death. If he ever managed to get out alive, he would be sure to give this thought more attention as well as uploading a picture to his blog so as to avoid any deadly misidentifications in the future.

The woman took a breath, smiling smugly, "I am Shan."

He performed a double take at the diminutive woman. "_You're_ Shan? 'The mountain'?" he finished in surprise, remembering Sherlock's translation the other night.

"Shan is two words in Chinese. It also means 'the elegant'," she explained, casually surfing the internet on her phone as if this wasn't some tense life-and-death matter but just another Thursday night, much to John's annoyance, "'There is no puzzle, no enigma that my friend Sherlock cannot solve'," she read his words meant at the time for praise but now ironically backfiring, "Shall we put that theory to the test with a riddle of my own?"

John shuddered, suddenly wishing he had spent more time with Wendy learning her techniques in solving riddles. For all her effort in teaching him, he still found himself falling laughably short in comparison to her – although the fact that Sherlock struggled with some helped his ego not totally collapse. However, at the moment he certainly prayed for an easy one if only to keep his head as Shan cocked the trigger, saying in a chillingly light voice:

"Three times we've tried to kill you and your companion, Mr. Holmes. At the flat in Chinatown, the museum, and tonight at the theatre – all three ending in failure. Now, what does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?"

Thoughts rushed in no particular order in John's mind, gathering to a cohesive 'I don't know'. At that moment, it became all too real for him that his friends weren't going to make it in time to save him. He could only hope that Sarah would hold more fortune in the matter. Closing his eyes while breathing jaggedly, the soldier flinched at the sound of the trigger being pulled – waiting for an impact that never came. The barrel was empty.

Heaving a sigh of relief, John gave the maniacal woman a tentative glare as she smiled, "It tells you they're not really trying." Loading her gun to his dismay, she continued, "Blank bullets fired at the museum; as for the fight in Soo Lin's flat, your companion was allowed to live. If we wanted to kill you Mr. Holmes, we'd have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive."

John blinked at the new information. The part about the bullets made sense, considering the odd lack of any noticeable damage to the displays as the assailant lured them away while Zhi Zhu finished the job. In all, they were just sounds made to fool them – a remarkable feat considering even Sherlock was caught off guard. Nothing like firing a gun at someone to make them think they're on the trail of something special, only to be devastated at realising it was all a charade. The later bit about the flat, however, bothered him more so. No wonder the detective sounded so hoarse; he'd likely come within inches of his life, and all the while the doctor was shouting complaints. Just another thing he regretted about that moment.

The cocking of the gun and repositioning back in his direction made him flinch away from introspection, causing Shan to smirk, "We haven't found what we seek, but no matter. Now we have our own sniffer dog: Sherlock Holmes," she gave a mocking sniff at him, making John cringe back as she continued, "The rat who gnaws at the tail of the cat only invites destruction, after all."

So that made her the rat huh? John fought back a bitter laugh, his own expression lightening a bit, "Proverb?"

At his correct conclusion, her lighthearted demeanour diminished to a no-nonsense frown. The time for play was officially over, and the doctor grimaced at the loss of time his careless actions wrought, "Do you have it?"

"Do I have what?"

"The treasure," Shan growled, patience wearing thin.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied breathily.

"Oh?" her smile was back, tone melting to a more affable one, "I would prefer to make certain."

Shan gave a signal to the smaller man, prompting him to remove the covering of the item in the foreground; revealing the eerily familiar Chinese ballista. John's eyes widened – not at the revelation of the albeit deadly device whose power he witnessed first-hand, but what the tearing away of the cloth also showcased.

Bound and gagged similarly to Sarah, illuminated by a small ring of candles beside the fourth figure, whose sturdy stature was now clear, was the last person John expected or even wanted to see caught with them in the abandoned tunnel.

"Wen-"

…

"-dy!" Sherlock finished his call while simultaneously bursting into the woman's flat.

His eyes were wide, containing a flurry of newfound information. He had cracked the cipher but not in time – the ominous paint on the windows of his flat gave testimony to that. John had undoubtedly been mistaken for him, and now it was only a matter of minutes until the doctor became a fourth victim to the case. And despite his own ego arguing against such actions, Sherlock knew that the more aid he had, the better chance John stood surviving – fueling his actions in arriving at the woman's place.

"Wendy!" he called again, to receive the same silent reply.

Where was she? Now was not the time to dilly dally. Sherlock gave an anxious flick of his hand, moving forwards swiftly and nearly tripping in the process. Looking back, he happened upon cobalt boots carelessly left in the middle of the hallway, likely from the owner's idle return and focus on rest. Not missing a beat after that stumble, the detective entered the woman's room – and once again, no one. He didn't have time for-

_Beep! Beep!_ The sound caused him to straighten up and rush into the living room once more, spinning round and round to locate the source of the disturbance. There! He dashed forwards, coming to glance at the microwave proclaiming its job done. Surely she should still be within the premises, the meal had just finished - and by the warmth, only remained in the device for a few minutes at most. Coupled with the logical fact that she wouldn't venture shoeless - or at least he believed she wouldn't after informing of her weary state - he could only come up with one solution.

Sherlock's expression hardened to counteract the plummeting notion of his stomach. Wendy had fallen prey to the kidnapping as well.

He was on his own.

…

"You have a very sharp friend, Mr. Holmes. She would have certainly stopped our pursuit in a matter of days had she not been overly concerned with the well-being of her friend," an annoyingly familiar voice echoed vaguely in my ears.

My head pounded, passionately objecting to my movements. Why did the guy have to knock me out old fashionedly? It was the 21st century dude, upgrade your tactics and go for the classical chloroform for goodness sakes. Sure, it would leave me out cold for a bit longer and a bit ditzy, but the general effects would prove the same. And another thing, would it kill them to take my shoes or at least a pair of socks along with? My feet were freaking icicles. If I got frost bite, they were definitely going to pay for the expenses.

"Luckily, a reliable source warned of her tenacious ability and such events never came to pass. Although, I am impressed. To have the favoured Wendy Verarity as a protégé is quite a feat indeed Mr. Holmes," the voice finished.

What? Me, underling of _Sherlock_? Oh ho hoooo…. Not on his life. Who was this idiot? Thinking me a loyal student of that arrogant prat. Had she lived under a rock all this time? We were more like bitter rivals than smiling, happy-go-lucky peers. My blood boiled at the mere thought, prompting me to open my eyes and angrily blink away the fog.

Whoa, new setting; not what I expected. It looked like some abandoned train tunnel, lit by the glowing candles and fires scattered about. What was with these people in creepy places and archaic tactics? Didn't they know what era it was? I guess the underground business wasn't doing too hot either after the economic depression a few years back.

"Let her go, both of them. They have nothing to do with this," John growled, and I looked over in his direction to see him and Sarah strapped tight to a pair of chairs. They looked terrible; beaten and bruised – and John's left temple all bloody from his unfortunate encounter.

Across, barely concealed by the circus device from before, was the creeper lady. So I was right, she was involved in this whole Black Lotus scheme! Figures. She wasn't exactly the most secretive of the bunch. You can imagine my surprise later at hearing she was the head honcho Shan. No wonder the lot had so much trouble.

"I'm afraid you are in no position to be making demands, Mr. Holmes," she snidely remarked. Holmes? Sherlock had been captured as well? Oh great. Leave it all on me to save his hide a fourth time…

I looked around the room for the named, but found the place absent of him. Where was he? I directed my gaze back towards Shan, following her own directed at John. John? Whoa no whoa. She thought _he_ was Sherlock? How dense could she get? No offense to Mr. Watson intended, but the two couldn't be more different.

Nevertheless, John glared at her, fighting his bounds like a good soldier while Sarah appeared too shell-shocked to move. The poor girl; so much for a nice night in. This was likely her first and last date with the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes, that's for sure.

"But don't worry," Shan continued smugly, not helping her image whatsoever, "Certain people will pay a handsome ransom for her return – and with the aid of our consult, no one will stand a chance at dismantling our empire."

Sheesh. Wasn't she chalk full of herself. Did that make her the empress? Pfft. Talk about a doomed kingdom – although this consultant seemed interesting. I wonder who it was, holding that amount of sway over the ludicrous woman, who obviously didn't play nicely with others – considering her power complex and all. But more importantly…

"Hey! I'm not going anywhere lady – or as long as 'anywhere' means with you," I retorted, or rather babbled incoherently, summoning their attention: John giving a concerned look while Shan passingly expressed amusement.

I blinked, registering for the first time a foul-tasting rag restraining my mouth. I could only hope hadn't come from the armpit of the jacket belonging to the guy standing over me, but didn't hold up too much. Infuriated, I went to remove it, only to find my hands bound behind me in a similar fashion. They had me freaking tied up like some animal! Ooooh, forget Sherlock; this moron was on the top of the most annoying now. Not the brightest light bulb either, considering I could easily get up without the assistance of my hands. Did she think me some clumsy girl who'd just obediently sit there the whole time? Like I said before, Wendy Verarity is no one's damsel in distress.

Regrettably, my efforts were dually stopped as the man beside me finally had a chance to do his job, grabbing the loop created by my arms and pulling me back so suddenly that, for a moment, I dangled astonished by the action. Alright, minor setback. One thing at a time; first of all being to remove this nasty armpit rag from my mouth…

I was nearly halfway through gnawing the disgusting gag apart – like it sounds, not a pleasant task, but necessary – when whimpers of struggle a few moments later tore me from my concentration. My eyes widened in distress as Zhi Zhu and the warlord armor guy from before picked up the chair carrying Sarah and placed it in line of the crossbow. Hackles raised, I found new strength in my efforts as the innocent girl struggled to hold a grip on her fears.

Through our struggles, I could make out Shan's demands for the location of some fancy pin, wholeheartedly believing John to be Sherlock and thus knowing where it was; once more exhibiting her lack of intelligence and exaggeration of Sherlock's knack at solving mysteries. What was it with these people in idolising him? No wonder the guy had ego issues. The man still had much to prove in my eyes, not even being able to solve simple riddles didn't account for much, reputation wise, in my mind. But that aside; this was all for some stupid pin?! How superficial could these people be? Just go to the mall and buy your freaking hair accessory there, don't drag us into the mess.

"Please. Please, listen to me," John fidgeted uncomfortably, casting anxious looks Sarah's way as she whimpered, "I'm not- I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You _have_ to believe me. I haven't found whatever it is you're looking for."

Although his sincerity and dedication at getting her out of the situation are much appreciated, John should have known better than to plead with the black-coated woman. She was hell-bent on his identity, and nothing but the cold hard proof of Sherlock himself would convince her otherwise. Where was that guy anyhow? I fidgeted, nerves beginning to get the best of me. Surely he realized the predicament we were in. I could only hope that some of the praise people gave him proved true and he wasn't currently across town looking for the book key to the cipher - that and traffic miraculously parted for him. The last thing we needed was a major jam to leave us eaten by rats in this leftover tram - heh, rhyme. Nothing like humour and nervous giggles to lighten the situation.

"I need a volunteer from the audience. Ah, thank you lady. Yes, I think you'll do very nicely," Shan proclaimed; her sequential theatrical display only worsened matters, after her brows raised in irritation at John's lack of available cooperation. Not my fault she couldn't tell a peacock from a pigeon.

My jaw clenched. She wouldn't dare, but she did - walking over to Sarah who wailed and pulled against her bounds if only to get an inch away from the crazed woman who stopped midway and pulled out a sharp-looking dagger, plunging it into a sandbag suspended from a metal beam above. The grains poured out from the item, slowly lifting it up while a hunk of metal descended down ominously from the darkness. My stomach dropped and John let out an appalled sigh while we both stared up at the bag in horror; our time just got a heck of a lot shorter.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Shan smiled around at her illusionary audience, explaining her insanity clearly as she continued, but I paid no heed; instead closing my eyes to give the bounds all my attention. I didn't have time for her lunatic games, I needed out and now. Fortunately, the pent-up terror at Sarah's peril and fury at the mock ringleader helped progress matters so that the cloth was strands away from breaking.

Wait. Why was I trying to get rid of that first? Shouldn't the hands come before the mouth? Did I think I could just talk sense to the insane crowd? Stupid, how stupid! No, such measures were beyond hopeless. If I had any chance at saving Sarah, I needed to be free of Baldy behind me first. But how? He was easily twice my size and had an iron grip that hadn't waned in the least since my standing, pulling up so that I was forced on my tip toes every so often like the sadistic turd he was.

"Please!" John yelled, frantically trying to get out while fueling my thoughts to go faster.

Suddenly an idea hit me; wasting no time, I jumped back, slamming my elbows into his gut while simultaneously stomping on his toes. A pained gasp left his throat and instantly his grip vanished. Success! I spun around, kicking him to the floor in a swift move thanks to years of combat practice, and bolted towards Sarah while surprise was still on my side. However, I overlooked on major thing: running with your hands tied behind your back is no simple task, especially when your prison guard recovers like some freak Augment.

His hand snatched my ankle, sending me plummeting to the ground face first with no hands to cushion the landing. My breath was pushed from my lungs, but thankfully the impact tore the gag downwards and out of my mouth, giving me the chance to yell out, "Sarah!"

Shan gave an amused snort at my actions, nodding for the goon to restrain me once more before turning to Sarah and giving her a black origami flower. My heart stopped. Would I be forced to watch another person die in front of my eyes? I ground my teeth, fighting back tears of rage. No, I wouldn't. Not again; never again.

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John screamed at the woman, prompting her to face him and give a smug look, stubbornly keeping her illusionary belief.

"Wake up you idiot!" I snarled, viciously struggling against the man holding me back, "He's telling the truth!"

"I don't believe you," she replied simply.

"You should you know."

At the remark, everyone stiffened and turned to the source – notwithstanding John and I, who were painstakingly strapped down but our eyes widened in recognition as the voice of Sherlock echoed off the walls nonetheless, "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him."

For the first time, Shan's eyes flashed in realization at her miscalculation. About time. No one could be as much of a danger-magnet as Sherlock. Case and point as the Black Lotus General raised her weapon where the man presumably stood while Mr. Warlord scampered off to apprehend him. Not a very smart move, considering both his boss's sanity and loyalty had much to be questioned about.

"How would you describe me; Wendy, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?" he addressed us in a lighthearted manner, going so far as to click the c on the last word; totally oblivious to the looming situation.

"Late…" John breathed half relived and half exasperated, his voice reaching not nearly enough decibels as my angry yell despite my own relief. Strained nerves and unexpected underground criminal introductions will do that.

"Quit fooling around idiot! Can't you see we're not exactly in a comfortable place?!"

I thought I could make out a faint huff in amusement from the distance, but didn't stop to check it out. Instead I returned to struggling furiously against my restrainer, focus bent on Sarah's frightened form. The sand bag was still ascending, and there was hardly any time left.

From the left, Shan's discomfort seemed to grow more so as Sherlock observed, "That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel over a thousand metres per second."

"Well?" she growled, not budging from her position.

"It's called ricocheting stupid," I snapped, "Look at how small of a space we're in – and the curvature of the walls. Unless your shooting skills are amazing, then one wrong move could hit you – and if your intelligence says anything, odds are not in your favour girly."

From afar, sounds of a short-lived struggle sounded, alerting that the poor sod going after Sherlock had been dealt with accordingly, adding to Shan's discouragement. Another thud later and that end of the tunnel got substantially darker as Sherlock added, "Still, I'd grab a torch. Can't shoot straight in the dark."

And you know what? The idiot still shot, despite all our warnings. And like we said, it ricocheted, nearly hitting her and subsequently John behind her. "Nice shot moron," I commented snarkily, eyes flashing to where Zhi Zhu slinked into the darkness to find Sherlock.

She glared at me for a moment before we both turned at the sound of someone gasping from breath. Out of the darkness, Sherlock and Zhi Zhu fought each other from behind Sarah's chair, the former struggling to break free from the other while the smuggler wrapped a long strand of silk around his neck to strangle him and complete the job he failed to do last time. My stomach lurched, "Sherlock!"

"A boat can't always sail with the wind; an army can't always win battles," Shan breathed coming to a stop in front of me and glaring back at the two. I was about to make a snide comment when her expression melted into a devious one as she set eyes on me, "No matter. I'm certain you'll fetch a far more appealing price in compensation."

"Hey, I'm no party favo-" my retort was cut off as she nodded to the man, who took the signal and began dragging me away with them.

Fools. As if I'd willingly go along with. Who'd they think I was? Princess Peach? Stubbornly, I pulled against him with all my might, eyes set on the dwindling time. Sherlock still fought against Zhi Zhu, who added layer upon layer of silk to his restraint. How on earth did he keep so much in his pockets without appearing bulky? John, on the other hand, was slowly making headway towards the device.

Good, he was at least making progress. Better than us two, especially after the guy holding me back went for the cheap move – applying no small amount of pressure to my healing hand. Instantly, my body stiffened in shock at the bolt of pain and I let out a yelp, giving him enough time to haul me over his shoulder and chase after his boss. What was with men and swinging people over their shoulders? Was a traditional carrying style not good enough? They would deter from consistency in this area.

Recovering slightly, I began to flail – giving my best attempt at setting myself free when John's attention snapped towards me, his eyes wide as he lost sight of his goal. Personally, I wanted out that instant, but knew the choice John faced. He could either try and rescue me, or, with better luck, save Sarah. Conflict glowed in those blue eyes, as he stammered to find a decision.

I bit my lip, forcing myself to take a break from my fight and command, "Save Sarah!"

With his purpose clarified, John returned to his previous efforts. Everyone's forms began to get progressively smaller with distance, and for the first time since this whole drama started, I felt a stone of uncertainty make its home within. My body began to shake at the all too clear possibility that it may be a long and strenuous time before I would see the men again. I'd made my decision and was fine with it, but didn't know how to handle the repercussions.

A swoosh noise clamored off of the walls, and in the distance I could see Zhi Zhu's form stiffen with Sherlock's, and arrow sticking out from the middle. Due to the distance, my heart leapt, not knowing who had taken the deadly blow until, what seemed like hours but could have only been seconds later, Soo Lin's brother joined her in death. A passing relief stole through me - not necessarily at the guy's perishing but that Sarah was out of danger.

It was a short-lived feeling, quickly replaced by the former fear rising higher as we rounded a corner and I lost sight of them, not before closing my eyes and screaming, "Sherlock!"

The named responded to the call, his efforts to regain his breath and free himself from the scarlet fabric dutifully wiped away by a burst of adrenaline. He gave a glance down at John who yelled, "Go!"

Instantly the detective was off, tearing after the escaped criminals - his feet gaining speed with every step and recovering from the not too long ago strangling. In seconds, he rounded the corner to see the two forms just a few metres ahead, moments away from the illuminated exit of the abandoned set of tracks, where their vehicle undoubtedly lay in wait. Sherlock grimaced, knowing that if he wasn't quick enough they'd escape into the night.

Not missing a beat, he scrunched down and nabbed a couple of stones, making a one-time sling to serve as an effective inconvenience for the fleeing smugglers. He knew his only chance at stopping them rested with the precise attack - and no doubt was contained in his form. He could do it. The distance between them had been reduced immensely, with only a few inches of ground to cover for ideal settings, the chance of error was barely noticeable: the wind being an irrelevant factor and their dodging restrained by the walls and effort in climbing the stairs helping this deduction. All that remained was which person to target; but with any luck, Sherlock knew he could get both. It all came down to one person.

"Wendy!" he shouted at the woman, but her eyes were clamped shut as her form bounced with the man carrying her. Growling, Sherlock grasped for the right thing to say. If his plan were to work, he didn't have much time; he needed to choose his next words carefully and effectively. Taking a breath, he yelled, "They're taking you to the circus!"

Not a second after the words left his mouth, Wendy's head snapped up and Sherlock grinned, knowing that she remembered her threats from earlier that evening when they were directed at him. Her eyes blazed in determination, turning to fulfill her promise, leaving him enough energy to focus on twirling the makeshift swing in a circle, aiming its departure at the second fleeing form on the stairs.

At the sound of her companion giving a cry of pain, Shan turned her head back, delaying her flight and opening herself up for attack. Sherlock gave a breath, fully expecting the pleasing reward of a case effectively closed with some thanks to Wendy and her quirky threat to bite the sensitive auditory organ should she be forced into a situation involving clowns. The detective chuckled inwardly, making mental note to remind her of the defect in her fear later. He was seconds from releasing the weapon when the uncalculated happened.

Mind befuddled by the pain wrought by her attack, the man stepped backwards, losing his balance and therefore falling – sending his captive flying in the air as well. The momentum of the sling slackened as Sherlock stared up, stunned at the turn of events. From behind, Shan was equally stupefied; stopping altogether for a near perfect target. His will lunged at the opportunity to take down the general and deal a lethal blow to the organization, but at the path Wendy was projected to take he stopped short. Inevitably, he had to make a choice. One made almost solely on instinct.

Letting go of the sling, it sailed through the air while Sherlock opened his newly free arms in time for Wendy to land in them. The force of her fall knocked both down on the floor, but not so hard that he lost his breath or view of Shan. The woman's shocked gaze at her fallen companion sprawled on the stairs was broken as the item narrowly missed her head – going far higher than he warranted. He glowered as she turned and disappeared into the street light above.

"What's the matter with you?!" Sherlock blinked, looking down at the person in his arms as she continued, "How could you miss? She was three feet in front of you!"

He raised his brows, knowing her anger obviously stemmed from a defense mechanism. Despite the defiant glare in those amber depths, her body was trembling viciously – serving testimony to her fearful experience. In addition, the flickering of light above allowed him to see remnants of tears brimming Wendy's eyes. For the first time, Sherlock felt no bitter remark or callous observation well up in him in response.

Instead he let base instinct takeover for once, pulling her close and effectively cutting off any further conversation while startling the girl, who found her head pressed against his chest where a faint drumming sound reached her ears. In the meantime, Sherlock untied the rope securing her hands, revealing a nasty rope burn on each that exhibited early signs of infection from the unsterile area. She would need to get them treated lest the taint spread.

Now it was Wendy's turn to blink as she pulled her arms forward to glimpse the marks, all-the-while slumping down on him, not bothering to sit up as she asked a simple question overriding her mind in a barely audible whisper, "Why?"

Sherlock gave a small smirk, opting for her own words, "I just figured saving you was more worthwhile than catching some 'crook'. Who else could surmise ridiculous deductions while simultaneously flounder head first into peril?"

Her eyes widened, and she gave one last violent shake before biting her lower lip and turning so that her face was concealed in his jacket, murmuring, "Stupid…"

* * *

><p>Wrote this while watching American Ninja Warrior. Goodness, I'd break my neck trying to do it, but it still makes me want to have an obstacle course in my backyard and be all ninja monkey. Officially number five on my bucket list.<p>

Hope you enjoyed the little moment between Wendy and Sherlock! Nice to see the ice beginning to melt, but don't expect all giggles and flowers from here. Nope, they still have a long way to go - considering Wendy's own denial of his profession, which is why I'm ecstatic at the next episode which plans to crush any lingering doubts there.

Review/fav/follow for my sanity's sake


	19. BB - Wrap Up

Chapter 19

It wasn't time appropriate, it wasn't what I wanted, it definitely wasn't what he wanted, but I did it anyway. Split second decision sort of thing - uncontrollable no matter what anyone did. Like the estrogen fueled wrath and sob fests brought on by a simple greeting or smile. Yeah, being of the feminine gender isn't all that. To any trans hoping to join it, I'll gladly donate my uterus; have fun dealing with the monthly gift. Wait, why am I talking about this now? Guess that's just my jumbled consciousness talking - that and lack of air from hiding my face in Sherlock's coat.

Like the turtle in the fable, my senses steadily returned from their numb vacation; my shaking slowing to an exhausted stop alongside my death grip on him. I turned so that the crisp, musky air could begin freezing away the tears and mucus. Eww. Sherlock must be nearly finished with the 50th volume of how weak I was being. Good thing I kept my eyes closed - no need to add his sneer to the crappy weight in my chest. Obviously he was upset that I got in the way of catching Shan, nothing he said would convince me otherwise. But should he ever have the gall to resurrect the topic later, I'd be sure to remind him he could've let me face plant at any time. Heartless actions were, after all, in his personal profile. Although currently such facts seemed to sway a bit. Or maybe that was just my legs.

Now my eyes opened, finding exactly what caused a light breeze to sweep around my bare feet. Sherlock had lifted me up and was now carrying me back to- Oh no. Uh-uh. No, not going to happen. The last thing I wanted was those two seeing this. If by some miracle Sarah stuck around, I'd never hear the end of it. No, this must stop now.

"P-Put me down," I commanded, voice unexpectedly hitching.

"It would be advisable not to do so, seeing as your current state stands tenuous," Sherlock replied, "Not to mention your lack of proper footwear. Can't have you stepping on a random shard of glass can we?"

"Are you seriously going to start this up again? What, three times wasn't enough?" I said sorely.

"Considering this is my second time helping you tonight, no. I believe a third requires some sort of compensation, don't you?" he smirked, knowing full well the upcoming scowl I returned.

"Helping me? Yeah right, taking me against my will!"

"That's quite an exaggeration on your part, seeing as my actions proved beneficial in the end."

"And dragging someone away against their will for the ideal outcome is supposed to be a good thing? I believe that still qualifies as abduction. In short, _not_ good."

"Ah, I was afraid you would say such," he gave a mock sigh of disappointment, "Seems your traumatic experience has left you damaged beyond repair. What an unfortunate event - to mistake kindness for ill will. How shall we live with such a tragedy."

"Knock it off! Even without wit I can still kick your-" I began angrily when he interrupted with a feigned gasp.

"Oh! She admits her tragic shortcoming; how wonderful. As you know, the first step in recovery begins with admitting where you're wrong."

"Why you..." my hackles rose, building tension for the next burst of action as straightened up in his arms to attack, "I don't care if you're Mycroft's brother or not, you're dead!"

Like the annoying prick he is, Sherlock managed to combat my attempted murder without aid of his hands while simultaneously keeping an almost steady pace. It ticked me off. How could the universe love such an ungrateful prat like him? I couldn't believe it. There were boat loads of people with better deeds than this guy, yet not one held the same fortune. I suppose, however, that it did play a substantial role in his survival, seeing as the same amount plus an extra country full of people wanted nothing more than to strangle him as I did at that moment.

"Nice to see you two are alright," John's weak chuckle stopped my onslaught effectively. Well crap, looks like my life was over.

For the remainder of the night, we waited patiently for Dimmock and the authorities to arrive, where the body of Zhi Zhu, along with his dazed cohorts were taken away while we all got a quick medical rundown by the paramedics - who graciously provided a pair of socks and booties so that Sherlock wouldn't have the chance to cash in on a third carting; as if I'd even let him. I practically gnawed one guy's ear off already and I didn't even know him. Sherlock's wouldn't be a problem. Anyhow, things began to look up. It was all over - minus the whole Shan escaping and practically getting half the bones in my body bruised/fractured/broken like the unfortunate prison guard guy (I suppose Sherlock's actions held some nobility - that or my injuries would have only caused more drama he didn't desire. Yeah, that sounds better) and stuff, but positive thoughts. That was for Dimmock to wrap up, while we got our fair, and overdue, rest.

"We'll just slip off. No need to mention us in the report," Sherlock instructed the Detective Inspector as I walked up beside him.

"Oh yes, that would be most appreciated," I smiled, rubbing my bandaged wrists absentmindedly. No need to have Mycroft happening upon the report in the newspaper and throw us all in an asylum for the night's events. Best scoot it under the rug and hope his OCDness doesn't notice it for a couple of years.

"You two..." the man trailed off in a scolding manner, showing that he'd oblige but didn't, under any circumstances, approve and would likely throw us both in jail should the matter arise in some court case.

"I have high hopes for you Inspector," Sherlock said in return, turning away, "A glittering career."

"I go where you point me," Dimmock simply replied, straightening up like some Boy Scout.

"Yeah, like that's a good idea," I spluttered, humoured and in disbelief at his faith in the man, "You can take his advice, but with a pinch of salt mind you. Trust your own instincts; they'll get you further - especially when you're out of cellphone reception."

With that we both walked away, leaving Dimmock smiling almost ruefully at our departure. And I have to say, I may miss him. He really wasn't that bad of a detective - just a tweak here and a pinch there, and he'd be famous. I'd like to see how much he progressed in the upcoming years, but for now home seemed a marvelous thing. And lucky us, it was merely a relaxing cab ride away.

...

It turned out our pesky thief was the blind banker employed by one of Sherlock's old peers. Sheesh, I could only imagine what it was like to have someone like him beside you in class. Ugh. Never mind, I don't even want to imagine. Although, considering his disinclination to social opinion, he was probably picked on a lot. They more than likely had good reason to, but I think I'd end up on Sherlock's side. Despite how he deserved some ego reformation, bullying is just one of those things I couldn't stand.

And one look at this Sebastian fellow prove that presumption true as he eyed me up and down while we walked in, "Who's the lovely lady? Not a companion of Sherlock's I'd expect."

"Uh; this is Wendy," John introduced before being effectively cut off by the guy.

"As in Wendy Verarity?"

"Bingo. Nice to meet you Mr. Wilkes," I gave a weak smile, not liking his interest whatsoever. I barely repressed a shudder at the creeper smile he was giving me. Of all the people in London, why'd the offspring of Jack the Ripper and Ted Bundy have to know about me?

"Now how did someone like Sherlock manage to get someone like you to tag along? Must have paid you, considering his glittering personality," he smirked, eyes gleaming with not so professional intentions that made me shudder. Poor John must've checked out of the conversation as he shifted his feet uncomfortably.

I gave an irked grin while replying in a controlled manner that I should have been given a medal for under the circumstances, "No, I chose to accompany Sherlock of my own will and would prefer not to be put under the same category as conventional ecdysiasts." He gave an awkward squirm of his own at my underlying fury. Good, he wasn't a total dimwit. "Now as to our current agenda. I believe you owe my friends payment for their generous service."

"Of course," his voice toned down to a less interested one, "£20,000 should cover it. I suppose he really did climb up onto the balcony."

"Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over," John finally spoke up before adding quickly, "Oh wait! Can you sanction off a third of that?"

Sebastian gave a peeved look, having nearly filled out the current cheque already and having to shred it for another. Still, he complied and with a forced smile sent us on our way out – but not before giving a parting, I kid you not, wink at me as I was stupid enough to glance back. I thought I heard a shriek in the distance and could only assume the universe was finally siding with me against the freaking creep. Now all I had to take twenty showers while scrubbing my skin with sandpaper to get rid of that image.

"Here," John said, shoving one of the papers in my hand.

My eyes widened at the £6700 printed out and attempted to shove it back, "Whoa there, I had no part in this. You can have your money – the Everest of bills at your flat needs all the help it can get."

"Nope," he said, rejecting my attempt like the little angel he was, "You've played more than a substantial part in solving this case. Use the money to buy yourself a treat or save it for university or something. You've earned it."

I gave a discontent huff but pocketed the envelope anyways just as Sherlock came down the escalator. "Ready to head back?" John questioned.

"No, we're not quite finished yet," Sherlock answered, leading the way into the cab, instructing the driver, "The Antiquities Museum."

We both gave him quizzical looks as he clarified, pulling out an object from his pocket, "I believe we have something they desire."

...

"Empress Wu Zetian," the Director informed us with a look of admiration at the gold and black mannequin made to mimic the figure during her wedding a thousand years ago; in her hair was a plastic reproduction hairpin to complete the ensemble in the Chinese Antiquities Room. "The only woman to rule Imperial China. This costume is a mock-up of course; she lived fourteen hundred years ago. Nothing of hers has survived," she continued almost dejectedly, although to be fair, the modern replication was stunning enough to nab most photos in the museum.

"You're sure about that?" Sherlock asked, hand diving into his pocket.

"You hear rumours," she gave a weak smile, "The Chinese are always uncovering new artefacts, but nothing as of late unfortunately. If something would be discovered it would undoubtedly end up on the black market. Anything of hers would be worth...millions."

"Try nine million quid," I grinned as Sherlock produced the small, simple pin – the real deal. Man, I wish my hairband was worth that much; would definitely save me the hassle of college tuition, even though scholarships gave me a full ride. But seriously, who pays that much for a hair accessory? I guess museums.

"I wonder," he said with a smile of his own, "could you find a place for this, somewhere in the display?"

The Director's eyes squinted momentarily before what we were saying hit her. She looked at the pin and immediately knew its true value, mouth practically on the floor in disbelief. I chuckled, walking away from what appeared to be freak out number two of the day. It was nice to see it go back to where it belonged, even though Sherlock's methods in convincing that assistant to cough it up were less than ethical – something along the lines of her choice in keeping it would be an offshoot of blackmail, thus insinuating consequences of theft falling tragically on her lest she hand it over to a noble cause. But no one needed to know that; except maybe one, who coincidentally bumped into me that moment.

"Wendy?" I turned at the familiar voice, spotting Andy's surprised expression, "What are you doing here?"

"Hey there. Nothing much, just donating I suppose you could say," I smiled, noting the boxes in his hands.

Following this, he explained, "I got the position and my flight leaves Monday; just packing up the rest of my stuff early so things can go smoothly. Everyone else is in the back throwing a farewell party if you want to get a bite to eat or something."

"And miss out on the one it's dedicated to? No thank you," I kindly rejected, tone sobering afterwards, "Soo's brother died yesterday. His body's at St. Bart's for inspection, but afterwards will be buried beside her. I suppose it's more than he deserved considering his actions."

"Everyone deserves to be buried at least," he murmured, "And besides, I'm sure Soo Lin would have wanted it that way."

"Yeah..." I trailed off, a dark cloud beginning to cover us until my eyes caught sight of something, sparking an idea. "Hey, what sort of donation would I need to get on the list of benefactors - on the gallery wall?"

"Uh, depends. How much were you planning on giving?" he stuttered, caught off guard by the question.

Handing him the envelope, I chuckled as he looked at the cheque I got from the bank in surprise, "I assume that is enough?"

"This would certainly cover it. How-?"

"The item the smugglers were looking for. Seems like a lot of wealthy people wanted their hands on an ancient bobby pin."

"I suppose so," he chuckled, growing nostalgic, "Reminds me of what she said back then. Remember? 'You have to look hard at something to see its value.' I never knew how brave she was, but I vowed not to make that mistake again in the future."

"Good resolution," I said with a soft expression, "As for the name, three words should suffice."

"Of course. 'Verarity, Holmes, Watson'," he nodded.

"No, no," I chuckled, "Much simpler than that. Think."

Instantly his eyes lit up in understanding and became slightly damp. Since the moment seemed to reach the highest it could, I chose to end it there, giving the guy a warm hug and farewell before catching up with the boys outside. The next time I returned here, I'd be sure to see the wall that stated 'With grateful thanks for valuable donations to the National Antiquities Museum' and spot a simple name chiseled underneath, stating: Soo Lin Yao.

...

My bright demeanor from the sunny day calmed as I stepped into my dim room. Things finally settled down, which meant that back-burner report was up on the plate, leaving me no option other than to finish it.

The chair creaked and breathed as I sat and shuffled it back to the desk, comfortably nestling in between for what appeared to be an hour long project write-up. I inhaled, mentally preparing myself and hoping to spend as little time possible and simply get it over with. I'd procrastinated far too long though, so starting presented a bit of a challenge.

Tapping my nails along the oak wood, I began mulling. Should I begin this way or that? With a quote or a remark? Formal or casual? Informative or questioning?

"Gah!" I seethed, ruffling my hair.

"Problem?"

I turned to see Sherlock at the doorway, his head poking through the opening in precursor to his body.

"Just the introduction to my report. Nothing new really, I've always been terrible at beginnings."

"Aren't we all," he spoke surprisingly soft, and I nearly stood to check his temperature. "The Director discovered this at the museum and presumed it best in your possession," He placed a parchment envelope in my hands and I curiously looked it over prior to opening.

Inside was a stack of papers intricately describing all I needed to know for the report. It was compiled by Soo Lin, back before all the killings happened. I exhaled deeply. Even in death it seemed she couldn't resist helping people.

Setting them aside, I looked him in the eyes and smiled, "Thank you."

Shifting slightly, he began to take his leave, advising, "Try not to dwell on the opening, it will come eventually. Start in medias res until you reach the end, which may be swapped for introduction in order to relive some anxiety and promote academic success."

Wow, who knew he had it in him to veraciously encourage someone rather than berate. Huh. So much for the heartless sociopath. Grateful, I replied warmly, "Good advice, I'll try it."

Nodding, he smirked, "Saved me on a few occasions when conversing with my 'friend' proved unproductive."

"Yeah, can't imagine Skully having too many ideas to share," I chuckled. It was nice, not arguing for once. Just a friendly bit of advice with no demeaning in sight.

A brief smile flickered as he approached the door, concluding, "I'll allow you some peace then."

The door shut, leaving me once again in the soft spotlight of a clear midday. Taking the man's advice paired with the inspiration provided by the documents, I whipped out the report in a steady 45 minutes - complete with effective beginning and ending. It may not earn a perfect score but it gets pretty dang close. Some revisions were advisable, but they could wait until the morning. As of now, I'm burned-out and in serious need of some diazepam induced sleep.

A soft click of my laptop shutting, followed by the low moan of the chair scraping against the floor resounded almost painfully after the period of hushed silence and I winced unintentionally. It wasn't as if I had just been caught peeping, but the harsh friction bothered me like I broke some million dollar vase. Thank goodness the consequences didn't accompany the feeling and a more comfortable hush replaced the first. Perfect setting for a nap, all I need do is accept. And accept I did graciously.

"Mmmhhm," I stretched, reveling in the pleasing sensation it brought my stiff muscles. Now to appease my eyes and hardworking brain with well-deserved shut-eye.

A soft tap on the floor stopped my progress and I opened an eye to examine the source, immediately thinking a bug of some sort. I'm pretty sure palmetto bugs don't live in the chilly climate of England but still. Any insect couldn't hope to land high on my mercy list - especially within a three foot parameter of my bed. So taking that into consideration, you can imagine the state of my nerves upon the noise.

Nabbing a hefty textbook to squash the pest, I slowly turned. It was bad enough the thing was in my room, the last thing I need was the anxiety of letting it stay in some crack to reappear on my pillow when I awoke. Therefore, not startling it away proved imperative.

"Sorry buddy, but you just earned a one way ticket to squashville. Don't be sad, cause considering the experiments Sherlock may have conducted on you, I'm doing you a favour," I smirked, readying the book when the source registered in my eyes.

The good thing is it wasn't a bug, so yay for brief cardio workout. However I didn't have the faintest of what it could be. Before me lay a small slip of paper, face down to reveal its pearly back. Maybe it was from the report? Oh crap, I hope the pot was the same as the one I chose. Welcome back stress.

Snatching it up, I prayed for the best but my plea went unanswered. Not in a bad way, just erroneous in context of the situation. Rather than a work of art, what greeted me were three smiling faces. It was Soo Lin, Andy, and I on the first day at the museum, and for a moment I let nostalgia take me back.

"_Soo!" I greeted, waving excitedly at the oriental woman as Andy and I approached her stand carrying the ancient pot that was scheduled to be the star of my report._

"_Please stop calling me that," she quietly said, a twitch in her brow the only noticeable sign of anger, "My name is Soo Lin – not the shortened version you keep using."_

"_Aww, it's just a nickname. You know, to help with the relationship," I winked, settling down across from her, "That is, unless you don't think of me as a friend…"_

_My downcast expression immediately took sway over her, as she stammered to reply, "No- I mean, we are not strangers to each other. So I suppose we could be called-"_

"_Friends?" I beamed, all trace of depression gone._

"_Just agree, it'll save you some time," Andy chuckled from my left._

_Soo Lin sighed, however giving a genuine smile, "Yes, we are friends."_

"_Great!" I celebrated, snatching up a vintage polaroid camera from my bag, "Now to remember the occasion…"_

"_What? A photograph?" the woman stammered, "N-no, we have a lot of work to do. We don't have the time for such things-"_

"_Come on," I pleaded, "Please? It won't take _that_ long."_

"_But that camera – it's an antique right? The film must be expensive. You shouldn't waste it on a small moment like this," she argued, holding a valid point; in recent years the film price skyrocketed to nearly $20. _

"_Which is why we'll make it count," I shot back, firming my stance at her uncertain glance downwards, "And for another thing, this isn't an insignificant event. How many people can say they made friends with one of the kindest, most passionate, artistic women in all London? Not many, believe me," I smiled softly as she looked startled at my praise, "Please Soo, for me. I want to look back on these days and tease Andy about how adorably dorky he looked with a bowtie, and it just wouldn't be a complete trio without you to counteract this face."_

"_Hey-" Andy said in mock offence, while I waved it off passingly, going to prove my point when a light laughing reached our ears. _

_We looked over to see Soo covering her mouth slightly with one hand, as if trying to prevent us from seeing the rare event. For a second, I thought I saw a tear brim her eye but before I could ask she stepped over to our side, "Alright, but just this once."_

_Excited beyond words, I lifted the camera so that the lens faced us as we crowded together, instructing, "Say cheese!" before a blinding flash filled our vision._

The space between Soo Lin and my face blurred, followed by two other drops. Huh? I squinted, not understanding how it occurred when my sense of touch decided to reacquaint itself with me. My cheeks felt warm, with streaks of lukewarm moisture cutting through and the corners of my eyes felt as if lemon juice spurted in them. Although rubbing isn't advisable in such a scenario, I did just that and blankly took in my wet hand. Tears? I furrowed my brows, not grasping why. All the while the waterworks flowed steadily.

Then it hit me. Soo was dead. No more smiles. No more goofing around and chatting. All of it ended with her death. The wonderful place now stood a painful memory, and my friend - a life lost much too soon. All the possibilities went up in smoke, bringing in tow the hopes and dreams. Soo Lin was gone, and there was nothing I could do to revive her or those aspirations.

Finally breaking away from a shell of denial and shock, I buried my head in my hands and wept, buffering the worst so as to not unnecessarily alert anyone. My heart fractured and I could only imagine how I appeared with twirls of mucus and tears streaming down my face and arms. I desired someone to hold but far more wanted no one to witness my pitiful state, so my pillow served a valuable substitute. Unable to deter the sorrow, I allowed it to drain away my energy and send me off into the merciful realm of sleep.

The last I recalled before entering the unconscious abyss was the slight click of my door shutting.

* * *

><p>Aaand that's a wrap for this episode! Now onto the ever exciting Great Game, but more recently How to Train Your Dragon 2! I'm so excited! Toothless is so adorable and Hiccup and gahhh! Love~ T-minus three hours til movie time :D<p>

Now as for updates, from here on they won't be quick since my other story is in need of some love and I have a lot of reviewers to please. But don't worry, two months is a max for me to update or you'll know I'm likely dead or lazy. Although, as I've said before reviews and the like help motivate c;

God Bless~


	20. Great Game - Anonymous

Chapter 20

The following week and a half continued strikingly peacefully – the cases that came were simple and kept Sherlock occupied enough so that John and I could focus on our own projects; university was working out marvelously with the added quiet study time; and we even managed to pull off a nice movie night courtesy of John, or rather forced upon by his outright shock that neither Sherlock nor myself had ever watched James Bond.

In all, a gracious break from the hectic underground organizations, killers, secrets and stuff – after exams of course. Amazing how three days off equates to bucket loads of makeup work regardless of the university or nationality upon which it stands. But the good thing is, my report got a solid 95 – not bad if I do say so myself. I can only hope the testing went in the same manner; but that could wait, as of now spring break is a wonderful thing.

And remarkably quiet. Between John's job and Sherlock leaving for Belarus on some murder case, Baker Street was virtually a ghost town. It made me wonder of the other residents besides us and Mrs. Hudson. I never really had the time to say hello, but when given the opportunity the other day no one was home. Rather odd, no? Perhaps they were on vacation or simply rented the places out and had little success – which isn't too terribly hard to believe considering their neighbour and drama we've brought to the place. It was unthinkable how we managed to keep from being kicked off to the streets

Still, all the silence grated on my nerves, slowly driving me into insanity when Mrs. Hudson departed from the premises for a grocery run or was preoccupied in the bakery. Luckily she agreed – after much persuasion – to let me help bake some goods for sale when my stir-crazy fits got too extreme. Thank you Mom and your amazing apple pie recipe, which made the final push in convincing the landlady and later took rank among the most coveted items in the store, prompting more desserts to be made by yours truly until each day had its own 'Wendy's Special.'

Kinda made me feel up to par once more, like my life was finally getting back on track and mellowing out with enough excitement to keep me going. Sure the popularity threatened annoying paparazzi appearances but, due to a little thing called privacy law, they kept their distance and hung up the cameras once inside to eat. Apart from such devices, they actually kept up interesting conversation; allowing me a tiny break in between cooking and getting organized for next term.

"So, what's on the menu tomorrow dear?" Mrs. Hudson called, poking her head through my door while drawing me back to the present.

"Lemon icebox pie," I answered, setting down a pair of lemons, some eggs and pie crust ingredients, "Might add a raspberry topping for a little extra touch. Do you think it's a good idea?"

"Coming from you, of course," the landlady chuckled, "Since your wonderful apple pie, business certainly has gone up – and thank you for that dear. It's truly a gift to have someone as talented as you to spend time with."

"The honor is all mine," I gave a small dip of my head in her direction, slightly hiding my own flushed reaction to her praise, "With any luck, I'll have this out first thing in the morning. How's the pie coming along? Should I make an extra one for tomorrow as well?"

"That would be a tremendous help; and I cannot wait to try the new addition. Raspberry and lemons, I haven't had the two together since my days in America," Mrs. Hudson reminisced, shaking her head, "I'll leave you to it then. Do you need anything dear: some tea or extra ingredients before I go?"

"No, thank you," I smiled, grateful for the offer.

"Well, if you should change your mind you know where to find me," she gave a wink, disappearing back to her own flat.

She was such an angel - going so far for such a trivial matter, but that was perhaps what I adored about her most of all. Mrs. Hudson's motherly tendencies warmed an area of my life previously stuck in the grey; and although it brought up buried memories, her actions produced an abundant happiness that drowned out all other thought.

I let the smile linger, mulling over each and every affectionate deed – letting the goodwill direct my actions into a flowing ensemble that abruptly stopped upon looking into my glass container of sugar. My expression about-faced, surprised at the revelation before me: it was empty.

"You've got to be kidding me!" I said, pulling the small opening closer to my eye to reaffirm the obvious, "I _just_ bought some – not even a week ago!"

Groaning, I deposited the item on the counter and traveled out, pausing at the top of the small flight of stairs. Quite annoying really; the issue of pride and shame. Properly stalled my attempt to take up Mrs. Hudson's previous offer – especially when noting the lack of light illuminating from her door. She must've fallen asleep, and there was no way I'd be able to wake her up after the long day she had – leaving only one other option…

"John?" I called, peering around the doorframe to see if anyone occupied the flat.

Silence; I'll take that, and the hanging darkness illuminated only by the light from the hall and that filtering through the curtains, as a no. Now, any good, polite neighbor would have turned around and waited for the owner's return – but we didn't have that sort of relationship. Nope, our bond was forged in the fires of late nights, crime fights, insanity, and Sherlock. Personal boundaries were set at a very low bar; practically nonexistent. The only exception was our own rooms after a series of incidents brought about by Sherlock's lack in entertaining himself in a non-destructive manner. Therefore, so long as I didn't breach that rule things should be fine.

Traveling to the kitchen, I set about searching for where they kept the sugar – unfortunately happening upon a few of Sherlock's left behind and quite possibly forgotten experiments. Ewww doesn't even begin to cover it. Fortunately, the object of my desire showed itself quickly, sparing my stomach from further torture; however, it seemed Sherlock knew I was going to need it and placed it on the very top shelf beside a can of Joe. No wonder John chose to have coffee with me in the mornings, the poor lad probably couldn't even spot the can.

Well not anymore. I rubbed my hands together, formulating a plan to retrieve the item. First attempt involved me on my tip-toes and performing a Scrat-Acorn type thing with my nails barely scratching the surface of the glass. Dang. Well, Plan B: standing on a chair. My eyes searched the room until finding a suitable subject partially pushed underneath the table overlooking the window in the living room.

Bingo! Just the right height and stability. I grinned, happy to find it so easily when something caught my eye in mid pick-up of the item. On the desk lay Sherlock's laptop; the guy must've forgotten it while packing or, more likely, deemed it a waste of space in his luggage. Either way, it adequately caught my attention – especially when my elbow accidentally brushed the mouse pad and brought the electronic to life.

A pale blue light reflected off the table and my form from the device, drawing in my curiosity even further. From the looks of it, Sherlock had just replied to a post on his blog about going to the British ambassador before departing. Interesting, considering he had a passport and all. I suppose formalities were to blame for that; but more importantly, the following post captured my focus more so, drawing me in so that I slowly sat in the chair before the computer.

Had it been anyone else's laptop, I would have backed off and winced at the mere thought of doing what I was doing now. But as he's said so many times before, Sherlock isn't just 'anyone', thus giving me reassurance in my actions. Besides, I knew enough about sneaking about to actually pay attention to the object's precise position to place it back without him even noticing – guess that's the one difference between us. I have the respect to put things back, or maybe the gall to hide the truth? Whatever floats your boat.

Back to the blog, it appeared Sherlock had a little admirer, one who sent him tiny 'hidden messages' in the form of emails. Instantly, tiny alarm bells went off in my head – having the experience of fanatics well versed, or rather drilled, into my brain. Sure, they weren't too bad but things could escalate strikingly fast with these types of things. I could only hope it wouldn't for Sherlock's sake; though it was with that concern in mind, mixed with an unquenchable wonder, that I clicked on the link and pulled up his emails; spreading them out so that the entire screen filled with them.

From there, I began reading:

"_Dearest Sherlock,__  
><em>A Roman Emperor will help you work out what this means:<em>  
><em>DSPCWZNV T LX HLENSTYR JZF<em>  
><em>Anonymous"<em>_

What in the name of sanity was this? Some sketch cipher paired anonymous contact starting with the spine tingling 'Dearest'? Sure, it could have come from one of the man's relatives or past partners (though to be realistic, was that even worth thinking considering the guy's persona?), but the vague signature told otherwise. Perhaps the next two emails would shed more light on the identity:

_"Hi Sherlock_  
><em>SOMNEHCCGTEKOTYRIMOOLAIGU<em>  
><em>You'll never find out who I am. I live off the grid.<em>_  
><em>Cheers,<em>  
><em>Anonymous<em>_

_Sherlock Holmes!_  
><em>Here's a picture you might enjoy:<em>  
><em>Also, where is it the pigs live?<em>  
><em>Mwah!<em>  
><em>Xx"<em>

_"Mwah?" _I echoed, stifling a demeaning chuckle of disbelief.

I re-read silently, tilting my head at the messages. Anonymous? I'd ask who but that would be a bit redundant. But seriously, who the heck was this guy? Or girl? Gah, anon messages are so annoying... Anyhow, answers called for extra snooping, so extra snooping I did. Going back to the blog, I clicked on the title, and the history of all the comments, posts, replies and such under that name appeared on the screen.

First up: '_One day we will meet_.' …Okay, dramatic much. What do you even say to that creepy stalkerish tone? Apparently '_Oh, that's lame_.' Shocking, I mean how could Sherlock manage to sound just as pompous online as in reality? Most times people fall pathetically short in such feats. Just anouther irksome trait he possessed I suppose.

His follow-up comment on Anon's lack of imagination equally reverberated with the tone, yet sent my head into my hands. Lesson one in stalkers: don't egg them on – it only encourages them. And surprise, surprise, it was only days before the cryptic emails began. Seriously, when Sherlock returned I'd need to drill in some common sense and scrub out some arrogance from that thick skull of his. Foremost though: deciphering the messages.

"_DSPCWZNV T LX HLENSTYR JZF," _I practically gurgled out, tilting my head and squinting my eyes in attempts to solve it. Per the sender's sly hint, it held connections to some ancient emperor. Immediately Alexander the Great came to mind, but the thought quickly became acquainted with a mental trash can. Roman, not Greek; Roman, not Greek; Roman… What about Caesar?

Eureka moment! The Caesar shift – an elementary technique in which one simply replaces each letter of the message with the letter that is 15 places further down in the alphabet. In my middle school years we used a similar method to pass notes in history; good way to pass discipline since the ever useful excuse that it _did_ have to do with ancient times allayed the professor's anger. Anyway, not exactly the challenge Anon claimed it to be. No wonder Sherlock shoved it off in a heartbeat – although after clarifying it, the action seemed less understandable.

"'Sherlock I'm watching you'," I shuddered, wiping away the rising goose-pimples while muttering, "Creep."

Turning over the piece of paper, I proceeded to the next message with less enthusiasm. Being accustomed to such overzealous fanatics, I knew it could only get worse – especially since Sherlock was idiotic enough to respond back. The daft man! Don't reply to the wacko, just pretend you never got the message and live another day. Good grief. Though, to be fair, boredom can be quite a convincing motivator – especially in the hands of our resident pyro, who thought it a good idea to test the flammability of John and I's wardrobes with the excuse it would help him gauge the time we had to escape in the incident Baker Street caught fire - a sadly all too likely occurrence. Anyways, that was an afternoon we wouldn't soon forget and the primary motivator of making our rooms off-limits.

Moving on, cipher numero dos: "_SOMNEHCCGTEKOTYRIMOOLAIGU," _I slurred, voice attempting to make a coherent sound of the train wreck of a word. It reminded me of Icelandic – the language with a gagillion consonants and a dash of vowels; yeah, pictures are your best friend on that island. But remarkably enough, once spoken by a native, the dialect held a beauty of its own. Truly amazing, the way a spoken word can transform perceptions… Oh, off track again; my bad.

_"_You'll never find me, I live off the grid_," _I read lowly, frowning, "What's that supposed to mean: 'off the grid'? A simple calibration of satellites and-" I paused, words finally ringing signals in my mind.

Grid; rather odd choice of words wouldn't you think? Coincidence? I think not, especially considering the somewhat less popular grid cipher: a method involving simple times tables where each letter corresponds to a different spot on the grid. Start in the top left and work your way left to right, top to bottom, and whazah! You got yourself a mighty fine cipher – the only complication being that the letters having to correspond to a desirable pair of factors. As chance would have it, Anon did a huge favour in winding down to 25 letters and therefore ordering a neat 5x5 grid. Thank you Mr. Stalker, although I'm certain Sherlock didn't share in the gratitude, but bygones be bygones; onto the solution!

And whadya know, an even more ominous message: _Sherlock I'm coming to get you_.

Dude, not helping you homicidal vibes nor allaying my tinged nerves. Which brings up the question: if this guy really was some serious creeper hell-bent on stalking Sherlock of all people, then who in the world was he? Dang anonymous people and their ambiguity. But seriously, he obviously didn't know who he was dealing with. Tip for all: just because you read a ton about someone does not mean you know them. For all you know, they could be bluffing the whole time or, on a lighter note, only revealing the generals because privacy is a lovely thing.

And another thing, was it such a good idea to let Sherlock travel alone? Sure, if his Judo diploma meant anything besides wall décor, then he could handle himself - not to mention Mycroft undoubtedly monitored his movements, and likely my own. Ugh, knowing that I know he's spying on us all and being able to say it so nonchalantly just makes it that much worse... I suppose it's good in case we all get kidnapped, but still pretty sad and overwhelmingly annoying. But back to the topic.

Even knowing he was under overprotective bro's surveillance, Mr. Anon's messages and air of stubborn confidence grated uncomfortably down my spine. Especially considering Sherlock's own arrogance could only worsen his odds at felling an invisible stalker... Well crap. Maybe we should have agreed to come along with. Despite his knack at figuring things out, Sherlock was still susceptible of getting caught off guard – more so in this case of ambiguity with dark intentions. But to what extent: petty stalking or deadly obsession?

Gah! Enough jumping the gun – err, conclusions. Goodness, now my word choice is turning, better get a grip before the unsupported guilt comes. As far as I knew Anon was still grasping at straws - or at least that was my hope before the final message; which, by the looks of things, arrived the day of Sherlock's departure. There goes incognito, he'd surely see the opened message and suspect something, but that could come later.

Looking at the final note, I clicked on the attached image; immediately blinking in clouded recognition of the most recent code. They were almost like elementary hieroglyphics you'd see children compose - and indeed, the masonic, or otherwise known 'pigpen', cipher appeared in numerous children's books and secret writings due to its simplicity in exchanging letters for geometric symbols on a grid key. A welcoming fact that allowed decryption in a matter of seconds. Unfortunately, the message proved less comforting.

"'_Sherlock I've found you_'," my eyes widened, the floor beneath me trembling slightly.

Okay, now I _really_ wished we tagged along with him. But what could we do? For one, I wasn't even certain the stalker creep had contacted my neighbour yet and by far didn't want Sherlock getting a heads up on my snooping even though I could easily counter with his multiple snoops in my lodgings. Still, it would make for an extremely awkward moment I held no desire of having.

Yet why should I concern myself? He obviously held no qualm over putting us in the firing line – wasn't it only fair to return the favour? The moment those thoughts left my head, I cringed at the callous forming in my own heart. Sure, John and I have both come to terms of the hazards associated with Sherlock's companions and those who drew too close, but we wound up reasoning such things were inevitable considering his occupation. Regardless, the lingering anger remained, drawn more from fear of each other's well-being rather than our own. And right now, the person seemingly most directly in the firing line was by himself…

"Argh! Why'd that idiot have to go and reply?" I ruffled my hair, pushing away from my hunched position over the laptop and notepad, and going a far shorter distance than I expected - probably due to the figure colliding with the chair and stopping its progress. Blinking, I tilted my head back to see a pair of teal eyes staring unenthusiastically back. Looks like someone came home early.

Nervously chuckling, I chagrined, "Hey there Sherly, back already? I was just wondering if I could, per chance, borrow some sugar for a pie I'm making. Do you have any?"

"Certainly; in the kitchen, which you seem to have misplaced with the living room," he responded in an unnervingly calm way where it was plain to see how thoroughly unamused he was without physically needing show it, "As for your request, I'd be delighted to consent despite its counterproductive measures. If you desire to _use_ some for your dessert, then I'm afraid I cannot oblige considering the current display of uncourteousness before me," he punctuated, reaching over me to close the laptop while smoothly pulling me from the chair on the way back.

"I was just grabbing a chair to reach the jar," I defended, stumbling after him, "Cause apparently you've forgotten that not everyone has their heads in the clouds and can reach the top shelf. Rather inconsiderate of you actually - forcing John to climb up just to make his coffee."

"John doesn't take sugar in his coffee - therefore your allegation is faulty," he pointed out as the named made his appearance, obviously having just arrived from picking up our friend from the airport, "Your vindication likewise has need of improvement seeing by your poking about in matters that don't concern you."

"Creepy, homicidal stalkers going under an anonymous title concern me," I snapped, tearing my arm from his grasp and dutifully putting a stop to our procession outwards, "Especially when they're targeting a friend of mine."

"Stalker?" John reiterated in a confused yet troubled manner, while Sherlock questioned with more toned down versions of the same emotions, "Friend?"

"Yes, despite your aggravating god complex and dramatic personality, I consider you my friend Sherlock," my expression softened in concern. It was true, after all we've been through, it was hard _not_ to call him a friend. Now that didn't mean we'd get along perfectly like everything changed. He was still an arrogant prat and I was still me. But I must say, that spunk of his does grow on you after a while...

"And it's with that in mind that I'm warning you to lay low for a bit," I continued, firming my stance, "Just until this whole cryptic cipher thing blows over."

Sherlock scowled at the mere thought of obeying and staying at Baker Street for more than a day, giving John enough space to speak up, "Hold on. What are you talking about?" he turned to his flatmate, "What does she mean? Ciphers? Stalkers?"

"As I said," Sherlock ground his teeth, "It is none of your concern."

He made to escape, but the doctor quickly cut him off, giving him a no-nonsense look, "I believe it is now."

"Oh, and now's the part where I'm supposed to breakdown and divulge how secretly distraught I was keeping such frightening matters from you," his cruel smile turned displeased scowl, "Forgive me if some imbecile's riddles don't spark anxiety in me as they do you."

"Well they should unsettle you," I argued, "I've seen it happen before - people nonchalantly blowing off red flags like this only to end up in the gutters come next week. Believe me, unless contained, this will escalate quickly; and no matter how impervious you take yourself to be, you'll be blindsided like all the rest."

"Then it is a good thing I've got such loyal friends to warn me," he sneered, "Now if you'd both be so kind: Leave me alone," he punctuated by swatting away John's hand and proceeding to his room, "I have better things to do than worry myself over an ambiguous man's messages."

"Even if it's from Moriarty?"

Sherlock stopped cold at the name, his back minutely stiffening. Good, he was actually considering the gravity of the situation now. Even John started at the name, glancing out of the corner of his eye at me as if to ask if that were even a possibility. By all means; that's the thing about anonymous contacts - it could be _anyone_.

Still, chances weren't necessarily on my side and Sherlock was smart enough to realize that as he huffed, "If that is the case, than I've highly overestimated him and, once again, have no need for concern."

With that said, he disappeared into his room and shut the door, leaving John and I standing in the wake of my proposition.

* * *

><p>Aaand there we have it, the beginning of an episode! Sorry for the long wait! College probs ;u;<br>Anyways, after looking over it, not such a terrible chapter if I do say so myself. Maybe a bit fillingish, but at least the end bit picks up the pace for the upcoming chapters.

Please review or favorite or follow  
>And thank you all who have done so already! You're all rock stars ;u;<p>

God Bless!


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